


Such Hope As This

by iam93percentstardust



Series: A Legend Anew [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Slow Build, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-01-07 10:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 79,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iam93percentstardust/pseuds/iam93percentstardust
Summary: Bilbo finds an injured Thorin after the Battle of the Five Armies. They have so much that they want to say to each other but there doesn't seem to be enough time. Newly banished and brokenhearted, Bilbo returns to the Shire where he finds that it isn't as hard as he expected to pick up the pieces of his old life...If only it were that easy for Thorin.





	1. A Faint Hope

Bilbo awoke gradually, not sure if the sight he was currently seeing was real. He blinked once, then twice, trying to clear his head. Slowly, his sight focused. He propped himself up on his elbows, peering at the sky.

“The Eagles are coming,” he murmured.

At the last moment, they’d swooped in to save the day. He looked to the approaching orc army and saw Beorn scattering orcs left and right. Noises filtered in- the screams of the wounded, the clashing of swords, the calls of the Eagles. Bilbo breathed deeply, taking in the scent of orc blood, bitter and rank. But above that, he noted the smell of a different kind of blood, metallic and tangy. It was one that he’d grown far too used to over the last year- the smell of Dwarven blood.

Bilbo surged to his feet and made his way to the nearest parapet. At first, he only saw Thorin staggering towards the edge of the falls, gaze fixed on Erebor. His eyes fell on the pale orc, lying still not far from Thorin. He breathed a sigh of relief; it was over finally. Then he frowned.

Thorin was limping.

As he watched, Thorin breathed heavily twice and then collapsed. Without hesitating, Bilbo sprinted towards the stairs, his only thought on getting to Thorin as fast as he could. Gone was the memory of Thorin preparing to throw him from Erebor. Gone were the thoughts of banishment. Thorin was dying and Bilbo was not yet at his side.

There was so much that they hadn’t said to each other. So much that Bilbo longed to tell the Dwarf. He couldn’t possibly die now, not before they’d had a chance to talk one last time. Bilbo thought of those stolen moments during Smaug’s attack. He wanted those moments again, damn it, to last forever. He didn’t want them to only be stolen moments. He slid to a halt beside Thorin and fell to his knees, casting Sting aside.

“Bilbo,” Thorin gasped. There was a sense of relief in his voice and Bilbo wondered if, perhaps, Thorin had worried about him.

“Don’t move,” Bilbo urged him. “Don’t move. Lie still.” His hands grasped at Thorin’s vest, hoping to get a sense of how bad the injury was. Thorin inhaled sharply and Bilbo retched, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

It was worse than he had thought. He thought sadly that Thorin was lucky to be alive even thus far. He should have died minutes earlier. Azog’s sword had pierced deep, cutting through skin and muscle and bone like it was slicing paper. Blood blossomed across the clothing, staining Bilbo’s hand.

“I’m glad you are here,” Thorin said, groaning. Bilbo shushed him, trying to sound reassuring. He thought he might have come across as panicked instead.

“I wish to part from you in friendship,” Thorin said, gasping for breath.

“What?” Bilbo asked distractedly, hands pressing down to staunch as much of the bleeding as he could. Thorin’s words filtered through and he looked at Thorin, stunned. “No.” He tried to force a smile on to his face. It looked more like a grimace. “You are not going anywhere, Thorin. You’re going to live.”

Thorin merely chuckled as best he could. They both knew that wasn’t true but, perhaps, if he said it, it would make it true.

“I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate.”

Bilbo paused and cast an impatient glare at Thorin. Although he was surprised and gratified to hear the words, he didn’t think that now was the time to discuss this. How dare he waste his time talking about such trivial things?

“You did what only a true friend would do,” Thorin continued. Bilbo smiled sadly. It hadn’t been out of friendship that he had stolen the Arkenstone but out of love. He hoped Thorin knew that.

“Forgive me,” Thorin said, a small smile on his face. His eyes searched Bilbo’s face hungrily as though he was trying to memorize it before he went. “I was too blind to see it.” Bilbo knew then that Thorin not only knew of Bilbo’s feelings for him but also returned them.

Thorin’s voice broke as he said, “I’m sorry to have led you into such peril.” His face turned to the sky, ashamed of how he had mistreated Bilbo. Abruptly, he began to cough. Bilbo was horrified to see blood bubble from Thorin’s lips as he spoke.

“No- no,” he said gently. “I’m glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin. Each and every one of them.”

Thorin’s face turned back to his, shock evident in his features. He didn’t really believe that Bilbo could possibly be glad to have gone on this adventure. Bilbo nodded firmly, hoping to reassure him of his truth.

“It is far more than any Baggins deserves,” Bilbo whispered. He thought back on the adventures he had shared with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, from fighting trolls to slaying goblins to traveling downstream in barrels to facing a dragon. A fond smile graced his lips as he reflected that there was nothing he would have changed about the last year.

Thorin looked at Bilbo lovingly but the light in his eyes was growing dim. He knew he didn’t have much time left. There was so much he wished to say. He’d thought they would have forever to say them and now, he found that he only had a few moments.

“Farewell, Master Burglar,” he said, voice growing fainter. Bilbo ducked his head, unwilling to admit that the end was coming. “Go back to your books… and your armchair… plant your trees… watch them grow.” His breath was becoming more labored, the pain more pronounced, but there was still more he had to say. “If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.” He groaned again. There was one more thing he had to say to Bilbo but he found that his throat was closing, his mind growing dark. He was out of time.

“No!” Bilbo cried. “No, no, no, no, no.” He leaned forward, hands searching to find something, anything that would keep Thorin alive. “Thorin- Thorin, don’t you dare.”

Thorin’s eyes fell closed. His body grew limp. He exhaled one last time, his breath stilling. Bilbo sobbed his name again, falling to the side, cradling Thorin’s head.

“Thorin,” he whispered urgently. “Thorin, hold on. Hold on please”

He looked up, seeing the eagles soar through the sky. He pointed to one of them and choked out, “The eagles- the eagles- the eagles are here.” Thorin didn’t answer. “Thorin?” he begged. He started to repeat that the eagles were there but was unable to. Tears overwhelmed him and he sobbed.

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Thorin had always been there, had always been resilient. The pale orc had been unable to kill him in the Misty Mountains, how could he have done so now?

“I need you here,” he whispered, holding tightly to Thorin’s hand. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

It was a moment before he realized that there was still a pulse in Thorin’s wrist- faint and fluttering but present nonetheless. There was still hope. He stood awkwardly, trying to support Thorin’s weight as well as his own. It was no use. Tired and weakened from the battle, he was in no condition to try to carry Thorin. He slumped back to the ground.

“Gandalf!” he called, hoping that the wizard was somewhere he could hear him. But his voice sounded faint even to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time, his voice carried farther but not by much. Gandalf would not be coming to help him.

And yet…there was someone else on Ravenhill who could help him. Bilbo didn’t know why he hadn’t already thought of him but it didn’t matter now.

“Dwalin!” he screamed, panic now lending his voice volume. “Dwalin!”

But Dwalin didn’t answer either.

There was silence across the hilltop. It wasn’t fair, that fate had given him such hope only to snatch it away. Thorin still lived but Bilbo was powerless, able to do nothing but watch as his love passed on. Tears came thick and heavy now and he did nothing to wipe them away.

A shadow fell over him. Startled, Bilbo looked up to see Thranduil watching, an odd look of pity on his face.

“Can you help him?” Bilbo pleaded. In his fear and grief, he forgot about the enmity between Elves and Dwarves. He forgot about the capture of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. He forgot also the manner in which the Company had escaped the forest of Mirkwood. All that mattered was this faint hope that there was someone who could help Thorin.

Thranduil’s eyes widened. “He lives?” he asked softly.

“Please?” Bilbo looked down at Thorin, wet eyes shining. “I can’t lose him.”

Something in Thranduil’s heart softened. He remembered the loss he’d felt when his wife had died. Too many would be left brokenhearted by this day. There was no reason that Bilbo had to be added to their number. He dismounted his horse gracefully- Bilbo would later wonder what had happened to the great elk- and approached the Hobbit.

“For you,” he said gravely. There was no love lost between himself and Thorin and he did not want Bilbo to mistake his reasons.

He knelt and gently gathered Thorin in his arms- Bilbo thought to himself that he would never let Thorin live this down if only Thorin would live- and then stood, turning to face the small contingent of Elves. Somehow, he managed to mount while still cradling the Dwarf.

“Follow me,” he commanded before wheeling his horse and galloping down the steep mountain trail, Thorin a limp bundle in front of him. The Elves followed, two with similar bundles of their own. Bilbo wondered for a moment what they could be before he realized that he recognized the dark tousled hair on one of the bundles- Kíli. Then… yes, that was Fíli. His heart leapt- the two princes might yet be alive.

Wiping away his tears, he started to make his way down the trail. He had every intention of sitting beside Thorin’s bed until he awoke. But then he remembered. There was one Dwarf still on Ravenhill.

“Dwalin!” he yelled, voice stronger with hope. At first, there was no answer. Bilbo began to fear the worst. But then, in the lingering silence after Thranduil’s departure, he heard the distant sound of clashing steel and Dwarven curses.

He staggered toward the noise, adrenaline fading fast. His injuries began making themselves known, particularly the throbbing cut across his forehead. Not for the first time, Bilbo counted himself lucky. He was fortunate that the orc had not stayed to finish him off.

By the time he reached Dwalin, the Dwarf had already killed the last of the orcs. He stood alone, in a pile of mangled bodies, leaning on the handle of his ax. Bilbo wrinkled his nose; the smell alone was enough to make him gag but the sight was even worse.

“Dwalin,” he said, no longer yelling.

Dwalin spun, a relieved smile crossing his face. “Bilbo,” he exclaimed, striding forward to pull Bilbo into a hug. “You’re all right. I thought-” He cut off, unwilling to even think the words.

He stepped back and held Bilbo out at arm’s length, examining him. His eyes fell to the blood staining Bilbo’s hands and clothes. His face paled, a dramatic contrast to his ordinarily ruddy complexion.

“It’s Thorin,” Bilbo said.

Dwalin turned whiter than snow. “Is he-?”

Bilbo was already shaking his head. “Alive, barely. Thranduil has him. Fíli and Kíli are with them.”

Color flooded back into Dwalin’s face. “Where are they?” he asked, already moving toward the trail. Bilbo jogged to keep up. He didn’t know where the sons of Durin were but it didn’t seem to matter; already there were white tents being set up at the fringes of the battlefield. If they were anywhere, they would be there.

As they neared the trail’s end, Dwalin gripped Bilbo’s shoulder. “Find the others. Bring them,” he ordered. Bilbo nodded and hurried off.

It wasn’t difficult to find the rest of Thorin’s Company. Already they were beginning to gather. Balin was telling Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur that he’d last seen Thorin on his way to Azog. Ori, Dori, and Nori were tracking down horses that could take them to the top of Ravenhill. Glóin was directing Dain’s warriors to begin properly unblocking the Front Gate. Bilbo was unable to find Óin but he knew that Óin was a skilled healer; he was more than likely already at the healing tents.

After sending the Company to the tents, he was preparing to follow when he realized there was one person he hadn’t found yet: Gandalf. For a brief moment, he considered letting someone else find the wizard but then he decided that wasn’t fair. Gandalf had been the one who’d started this quest; it was only right that he knew how it had ended.

He didn’t have to search long for Gandalf; it seemed the wizard had also been searching for him. Much like Dwalin, he dropped his sword to hug the Hobbit, breath coming a little easier now.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said, once a mothering wizard wasn’t smothering him. “It’s Thorin. He’s still alive- Thranduil has him- but it doesn’t look good.” Tears choked his throat again, fear threatening to overwhelm him.

Fortunately, Gandalf seemed to understand everything that Bilbo wasn’t able to say. He looked over Bilbo’s head at the white tents in the distance and at the crowd of Dwarves gathering near the furthest.

“Come, Bilbo,” he murmured. “Let us see what has become of the King Under the Mountain.”


	2. Fading

“He accused one of you of hiding the Arkenstone?” Dain gasped. “Was he mad?”

“Yes,” Dwalin said simply. For the moment, the two sat alone in the healing tent. Thranduil had left only moments earlier to see to Kíli and Fíli although he would be back soon. Dain had arrived as Thranduil was exiting. He’d already posted guards at the gates of Erebor and now he had stationed them at the entrance to the tent to guard over the King Under the Mountain. The rest of the Company had not yet arrived.

“Dragon sickness,” he explained further. Understanding dawned on Dain’s face. “You’ve seen it.”

Dain shook his head sadly. “But to accuse his own kin of stealing the Arkenstone… it’s unthinkable of the Thorin we knew. After all you had been through together.”

“He was right.”

Dain’s head jerked up. “He was right? Someone had stolen the Arkenstone?” he asked. Dwalin nodded. “Who could have done such a thing?”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Dwalin said heavily. Dain looked confused. This was not a Dwarfish name, nor one that he recognized from the world of Men. “We hired a burglar, a Hobbit from the Shire. A Halfling, really. He faced Smaug while we cowered in fear. He found and took the Arkenstone before the rest of us even entered the mountain and, for his trouble, Thorin would have cast him from the gates.”

“And he would have been right to do so!” Dain exploded. “To steal the Arkenstone, knowing what it meant to our people!”

“No,” Dwalin said, feeling a surge of pride at Bilbo’s courage. “I know Bilbo. His heart would not have been motivated by greed. He saw what lie in Thorin’s heart, long before the rest of us. He thought he could save Thorin from the sickness and, when it mattered most, he came back even though Thorin banished him.” He glanced over at Dain. “He fought with me on Ravenhill. He warned us of what was coming. I know of few Dwarves who would have done the same.”

For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, “You say Thorin banished him?”

Dwalin thought he knew what thoughts swirled through Dain’s mind. “He will be here,” he assured him. “I sent him to find the others but he will be here.”

All Dain said was, “Hmm…” Perhaps Bilbo would come. But Dain had seen much of the hearts of others and he thought poorly of the loyalty of any who was not Dwarven.

The tent flap rustled and a tall shadow blocked the sun streaming in. Thranduil had returned.

Dwalin stood, anxious. “How are Fíli and Kíli?” he asked.

Thranduil held up a hand to calm him. “They will live,” he said, stoic as ever. Dwalin breathed a huge sigh of relief and much of the tension in his shoulders melted away. “I have left healers with them.” He thought of Tauriel, whom he had left beside Kíli’s bed. He would need to speak with her but for now, it would have to wait. Thorin had to be his first priority.

He took the seat Dwalin had recently vacated. Passing a hand over Thorin’s brow, he began to murmur quietly. Neither Dwalin nor Dain recognized the words as they were in some form of unknown Elvish.

Thorin’s face was pale and drawn. He hadn’t stirred once, not even when Thranduil had moved him to the bed. Privately, Thranduil thought that this might be beyond even his own prodigious skill. But he would do what he could. It was the least he could do for the Hobbit who’d been willing to risk his life to avoid war.

The tent flap rustled again and Balin poked his head in. “Bilbo told us,” he said quietly. His gaze fell on Thorin and his brows knit in concern. Dwalin beckoned him in. The rest of the Company followed him, even Óin who had indeed been at the healing tents.

“What happened?” Balin asked. “Bilbo couldn’t tell us much, poor lad.”

“I don’t know everything either,” Dwalin admitted. “I was separated from Thorin.” In hushed tones, Dwalin began to tell them everything he could that had transpired after he, Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli had gone to Ravenhill. Dain thought to himself that it was odd that Bilbo hadn’t appeared with the Dwarves after all Dwalin had said about him but if anyone else noticed, they kept it to themselves.

Thranduil began a more thorough examination of Thorin’s wounds. Dwalin finished his tale and still Bilbo had not appeared. If anyone other than Dain found this suspicious, they said nothing. Silence fell inside the tent although the noise level outside picked up drastically. After a few minutes of listening to the clamor, Dain stuck his head outside to find a horde of Dwarves waiting to hear news of their king. He couldn’t fault them for this, so he withdrew inside without ordering them to be quiet. Even so, he found the noise agitating and began to pace restlessly.

Thranduil sent for more Elven healers, needing their lent strength to continue such a complex healing. With so many Elves and Dwarves packed into so small an area, they found that the tent was becoming far too crowded.

After a few minutes of breathing in the stifling air, Óin announced that he needed to return to the patients he’d left. With him he took all but Dwalin, Balin, and Dain, telling the others that they could stand guard over Fíli and Kíli. Ashamed, they admitted that they hadn’t even thought of Thorin’s sister-sons. An appalled Óin shooed them in the direction of the two brothers.

Once again, a dense silence settled over Thorin’s sickbed. Dain paced, Dwalin brooded, and Balin found himself observing the Elves. It was strange, he mused, but for all his dealings with them, he’d never before had the chance to watch them unhindered. They moved as though they shared one mind and, knowing little of Elven biology, he thought that perhaps they did.

Time passed. Seconds…minutes…hours…it could have been days for all they knew.

Balin took Dain aside. “If Thorin dies,” he started to say.

“He will not,” Dain interrupted angrily.

Balin inclined his head. He hoped every bit as much as Dain did- more so even- that Thorin would live but he could see no change in Thorin’s condition since he had arrived. “If Thorin dies,” he pressed. “If Fíli and Kíli do not make it either, you must be prepared to claim the throne of Erebor.”

Dain’s eyes darkened. “You cannot ask that of me,” he said, shaking his head.

“And why not?” Balin asked. From his post by Thorin’s bed, Dwalin stirred, fixing his gaze on the arguing Dwarves.

“This was- is- Thorin’s throne!” Dain hissed. “I cannot take it from him. I will not dishonor him by claiming it.”

“And what of his quest?” Balin returned. “Will you dishonor that? Thorin fought a dragon so that the Dwarves of Erebor might have a home once again. You would throw that away so lightly?”

“What does it matter? Thorin lives.”

Nodding his head, Balin agreed, “Aye, he does…for now. But I am worried for what tomorrow might bring.”

Dain looked anguished at the thought of Thorin’s passing. Balin hadn’t realized how much Dain cared for his cousin. When Thorin had reported that Dain did not support their quest, he had thought then that Dain cared but a little for his family. After all, why else would he refuse to join the Company? He wondered now if he had been wrong.

“Maybe this is the wrong time to discuss this,” he said gently. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Until then, think about it, laddie.”

Perhaps Balin was right. Perhaps it was the wrong time to talk about such issues. Perhaps, if the tent had been silent, they would have heard the commotion outside. Perhaps they would have heard Bilbo.

Bilbo was tired. He was hungry. He was injured. He had spent the last hour fighting through a never-ending sea of Dwarves. At such a small height, it had been near impossible for him to get anywhere in such a crowd. Gandalf had disappeared some time earlier, having been called away by a voice Bilbo could not see.

Finally, though, he could see the entrance to Thorin’s tent. He could hear raised voices inside and he wondered who was arguing. He hurried forward, thinking only of reaching Thorin as quickly as he could.

Twin axes crossed in front of him, barring his way.

Bilbo looked up, noticing for the first time the guards stationed on either side of the entrance. They glowered down at him. Bilbo sighed. Yet another obstacle to reaching his king. He was too tired for this, he thought to himself. A wave of dizziness passed over him.

“Who dares demand entrance to the King Under the Mountain?” the guard on the right asked. The words sounded rehearsed. Bilbo wondered how often they’d had to say those words since they’d been stationed there (far too often, in the guards’ opinions).

“Bilbo Baggins, part of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” he replied.

The guards stiffened. Unbeknownst to Bilbo- unbeknownst too to Dwalin who would have been horrified to hear his words twisted in this way- the guards had overheard Dwalin telling Dain about Bilbo’s banishment and the stealing of the Arkenstone.

“We cannot allow you to see the King,” the guard on the left said.

“Why not?” Bilbo asked, fearing he knew the reason.

The two guards exchanged glances as though they were concerned about the state of his mental facilities. He must surely know why he couldn’t see Thorin. “Because of your banishment,” one of the Dwarves finally said.

Bilbo’s heart sank. He hadn’t expected this. He didn’t know either of these Dwarves, which meant that they were part of the army from the Iron Hills, which meant that they must have heard of his banishment from one of the Company, which meant… the Company hadn’t forgiven him.

“Thorin has forgiven me,” he said quietly.

Again, the guards shared a look. “We haven’t heard that,” the one on the right said.

“You must have. Look, call Dwalin out. He’ll tell you,” Bilbo said impatiently, even as he realized that he hadn’t told anyone that he had spoken with Thorin after the battle. He couldn’t believe this. He had come so far, gotten so close, only to be turned away at the last moment.

The guard on the left looked slightly sympathetic to his plight. Gently, he said, “We heard it from Dwalin.”

Bilbo’s breath left him in a sudden rush and he swayed on the spot. Dwalin had told them he was banished. Dwalin, who had looked so relieved that he had lived. Dwalin, who had hugged him after the battle. Dwalin, who must not have cared after all if he had indeed enforced this banishment.

He thought briefly of trying to fight his way past but discarded the idea just as quickly. He had far less training than these Dwarves. He thought then of putting on the ring and slipping past them but doubted that they would miss the tent door flapping for no apparent reason. Besides, he knew of at least one Dwarf who did not want to see him, who had not forgiven him for stealing the Arkenstone. He didn’t think he could bear it if they all felt as Dwalin did. Even though it was killing him, he thought that it might be better if he withdrew, for now at least.

Bilbo turned to go, wishing that he had Gandalf’s presence. Gandalf would have insisted on being let in. Unfortunately, the wizard was nowhere to be seen.

As though he had heard Bilbo’s wish, Gandalf materialized next to him. “Bilbo?” he asked, shocked to see the Hobbit. “Why are you here?”

“It appears,” Bilbo said, trying and failing miserably to sound lighthearted, “that I am still banished.”

Gandalf’s brow furrowed. “Surely that can’t be right.” He made as though to march back to the tent. Bilbo held out a hand to stop him.

“Leave it be,” he said quietly, putting on a brave smile. “Dwalin told the guards I wasn’t to be let in.” He hunched his shoulders, trying to block out the pain of the memories. Gandalf looked outraged on his behalf but Bilbo pressed, “I mean it, Gandalf. Let it alone. I will try again later, when perhaps they are not so emotional and will see me.”

“You have as much right as any of the Dwarves to be by Thorin’s side.”

Bilbo laughed although it sounded hysterical to Gandalf. “No I don’t. I’m not a Dwarf.” He swayed again and Gandalf suddenly felt concerned.

“Bilbo, are you all right?” he asked.

Bilbo held up a hand to reassure him but Gandalf noticed that it was shaking slightly. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a bit dizzy,” he said. As he spoke, he noticed detachedly that the world seemed to be spinning slightly. He wondered if his emotions were getting the better of him, not even thinking of the head wound he’d taken only a few hours earlier.

“You should sit,” Gandalf said, watching him worriedly.

He nodded. “Right, of course.” He fully intended to head in the direction of a nearby tree to rest under but found that his legs weren’t quite obeying his brain. Instead, with his head swimming, they folded under him. The world went dark. The last thing he remembered was Gandalf shouting his name.


	3. A Long Wait

The world was white.

Bilbo blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He swallowed with difficulty. His mouth was thicker than sawdust. There was an acrimonious, sterile smell in the air. His head throbbed painfully. Bilbo shivered. Yes, it was cold but it was more than that- it was the oppressive silence, the lingering sense of death flying on swift wings.

A cough rang out around the room.

Bilbo jumped and gasped, a sharp pain shooting through his head. He breathed in deeply, calming his racing heart. Glancing around, he sought the source of the cough, finally relaxing when he realized that he recognized the person sitting beside him.

“Gandalf?” he wheezed. Gracious, he sounded even worse than he felt. Wordlessly, Gandalf handed him a glass of water. He drank gratefully, careful not to gulp it.

“Yes, I’m here,” Gandalf reassured him.

“What happened? Where am I?” Bilbo asked.

Gandalf shook his head gravely. “You’re in a healing tent. Head wounds shouldn’t be left untreated, my dear Hobbit.”

Slowly, memories filtered back to Bilbo- the battle, his conversation with Thorin, and the enforcing of his banishment. “How long have I been asleep?” Bilbo said, choosing to gloss over the nature of his “sleep.”

“No more than a day.”

“And Thorin?” he prompted reluctantly, almost afraid to hear Gandalf’s answer.

Gandalf grimaced. “I’m afraid I do not know. It appears that you are not the only one who has been banished from the halls of Erebor. I don’t believe he is dead. I think we would know were that the case.”

Bilbo nodded slowly. It made sense to him. From what he knew of Dwarves, he suspected that the news of the death of a Dwarf king, whether it was sad or glad news, would be greeted with quite a lot of noise.

“I want to see him,” he murmured.

Frowning, Gandalf said, “I don’t think that’s wise. You’re still recovering.”

But Bilbo had never been surer of anything. “I must try. The Company- they’ll be wondering where I am. I should be with them.”

Gandalf argued with him, thinking that Bilbo wasn’t ready to be up and about just yet no matter how much he needed to see Thorin, but Bilbo held true to his belief. He needed to be with the Company. After so much time, surely they could see reason now. He waved off the wizard’s insistence that he needed more rest. He could rest when he was with Thorin. At the very least, he wanted to speak with the Company, to hear it from them that they didn’t want to see him again. And so it went on until Gandalf finally agreed to help him walk to Thorin’s tent.

The stubbornness of Dwarves? Gandalf rather thought that it should be the stubbornness of Hobbits. But he thought it unlikely that Bilbo would be able to make it without his help so he let the Hobbit lean on him as they walked slowly to Thorin’s tent. The healing area was far less crowded than it had been the previous day, with far less Dwarves in front of Thorin’s tent than before. Bilbo wondered briefly where they had all gone.

There was a different pair of guards stationed at the tent. Bilbo found himself hoping that they would not have heard of his banishment.

“Good morning,” he said politely.

“Morning,” one of them grunted.

Well, he thought to himself, at least this conversation was off to a better start than the previous one. Perhaps luck was on his side today.

“How is Thorin?” he asked.

“Who are you to speak with such familiarity of the King Under the Mountain?” the same guard replied, rather aggressively Bilbo thought.

Luck definitely had to be on his side. If they hadn’t recognized him on sight, then they surely wouldn’t have asked such a question. “Bilbo Baggins of the Company.”

But luck wasn’t with him. It was true that the guards hadn’t recognized him when he had first walked up but they had been told by the guards from the previous day to watch for Bilbo Baggins, the banished Hobbit. It was generally agreed amidst the Dwarven populace that Thorin’s declaration must stand. It wouldn’t do to have his decrees overthrown while he lay dying in a tent.

“The king lives,” the other guard said. “But we can’t let you enter.”

Bilbo sighed. “On account of my banishment?”

“On account of your banishment.”

Closing his eyes, Bilbo prayed for strength. He didn’t know how this could be possible, how his friends could have all turned their backs on him so easily. “Is there any way that I could speak to one of the Company?” he said.

“Afraid not. They’re not here.”

“And where are they?” Gandalf said, cutting into the conversation. Bilbo shot him a grateful look.

The guard shrugged. “Didn’t ask. Not my place.”

Bilbo nodded shortly, beginning to lose his patience. “Right,” he said furiously. “What would it take for you to let me see Thorin?”

“King Thorin himself telling me.”

“So you’re telling me that I can’t see Thorin while he is injured and possibly dying because he is too busy being injured and possibly dying to tell you something that I’m already telling you and I can’t see any of the rest of the Company because you don’t know where they are.”

There was a pause. Then… “Yes.”

Bilbo stamped his foot and muttered, “Pig-headed Dwarves.” An idea stirred in the back of his mind that there was perhaps someone else who could allow him to see Thorin. “Where’s Fíli?”

The guards exchanged glances. “You can’t see him either.”

“And why not?” Bilbo asked, voice dangerously soft.

“Your banishment stands for all of Durin’s sons,” one of the guards replied slowly, as though he were speaking to a small child.

Bilbo’s jaw fell open. “What? All of Durin’s sons?” he stammered, scarcely believing it. He didn’t recall that that was a condition of his banishment. The events of that morning had been a bit of a blur but he was fairly certain that he had only been forbidden from seeing Thorin unless… unless Fíli and Kíli had agreed with their uncle, unless they too had rescinded their offer of friendship. His heart ached. After everything they’d been through together, his friends had deserted him. He had faced orcs and wargs and a dragon for them and, yet, they had simply thrown him away like he was forgotten.

Well, Thorin had told him over and over again that he didn’t belong on this quest, that he wasn’t truly one of them, and here was the proof.

“Very well,” he said finally, stepping away from the tent. “When Thorin awakens, would you tell him I want to see him?”

The guard shrugged, his mind clearly turning to other matters. Bilbo decided that it was likely to be the best he could get. He turned and left, starting to head back toward his own tent, his steps beginning to slow with the weight of his sadness. After a moment, Gandalf fell into step beside him, his hand resting on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Gandalf said after a moment.

Bilbo just shook his head. “I should have expected this,” he muttered. “I’m not a Dwarf. I’m just a Hobbit.”

Gandalf gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Scowling at him, he said, “Don’t you ever say that. You are Bilbo Baggins. You have fought a dragon and reclaimed the kingdom of Erebor. You are not just anything.”

Bilbo leaned into him. He had needed to hear those words, needed to hear some sort of affirmation that would let him know that he was still important. It was a shame though that it was Gandalf telling him and not a certain Dwarven king.

“What now?” Bilbo asked.

“It is a strange thing,” Gandalf mused. “That after all Thorin has said, it is Dale which will be rebuilt first, that the combined efforts of Men and Elves and Dwarves turn first toward Dale before they turn toward Erebor. You can stay tucked away in your little corner where you can be forgotten about… or you can be needed again. You started this quest, Bilbo Baggins, to help a group of Dwarves reclaim their home. Now you can help a group of Men rebuild theirs.”

Gandalf was known for speaking in riddles but Bilbo barely pondered his words for more than a second. Gandalf was right. He was sure that Bard would be grateful for any help he could get and, although he was little, he could offer quite a bit.

“Where can I find Bard?”

A smile spread across Gandalf’s face. He had hoped that would be Bilbo’s answer. He knew that the Hobbit’s grief was very real and would need to be addressed but solitude would do Bilbo no good. He gestured toward Dale and the two friends set off.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps. Recognizing the sound, the two guards snapped to attention. Several moments later, Balin rounded the corner of another tent.

“Any trouble laddies?” he asked the guards, pausing at the entrance to the tent.

The one who had spoken to Bilbo shook his head. “None,” he replied, not considering his conversation with the Hobbit and wizard much more than a slight bother.

Balin nodded slowly. He looked out toward Dale, shielding his eyes from the sun. There had been no sign of the Company’s beloved Hobbit. He and Dwalin both were getting worried. Dain, on the other hand, had spoken at length about the lack of loyalty held by other races but the two brothers were saddened that someone who had come to mean so much to themselves and their king appeared to have abandoned them. He stayed where he was for a moment longer, searching the assembled crowd for Bilbo. But Bilbo was long gone and he finally stepped inside the tent.

The trek to Dale was quiet. Neither Bilbo nor Gandalf felt much like talking and so they remained companionably silent. Bilbo’s mind was preoccupied, swirling with the events of the last few days. He couldn’t believe that it had only been less than a week that he had come face-to-face with an actual, living dragon. So much had happened since then that it felt like an age had passed.

Dale was far louder than it had been the last time Bilbo had been there. There was shouting and laughter and above it all, the sound of hammering rang out. Dale was being rebuilt, not just by Men but, by Elves and Dwarves too. It seemed that both Thranduil and Dain had lent their people to aid in the effort. Everywhere Bilbo looked, people were busy removing rubble or constructing temporary shelters or fixing that which could be fixed. Bilbo smiled to himself; the people of Laketown were already bouncing back from the horrors of the last few days.

They found Bard easily enough, needing only to look for the area where the most people were congregating. There they found him in the center of it all, directing people to areas where they were most needed. Bilbo noted the simple wooden circlet that now sat upon Bard’s head. Well, if anyone had to be King of Dale, he couldn’t think of a better person.

“Bard!” Bilbo called when they were within earshot.

Bard turned and his perpetual frown lessened into what was almost a smile. “Bilbo Baggins,” he exclaimed. “We had wondered what had become of you, if you survived the battle.”

“Well I did survive, though not quite unscathed,” Bilbo assured him, tapping the sizeable lump on his head and wincing.

“You’ve been busy,” Gandalf commented as he turned to take in the construction.

A slightly stunned expression took over Bard’s face as he nodded. “We never thought to have any help rebuilding and now we have almost too much. Thranduil has given us all he can spare in aid and Dain has promised us help until Thorin awakens.”

Bilbo flinched at the mention of Thorin’s name. Studying him closely, Bard’s eyebrows furrowed. He thought he understood Bilbo’s reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It can’t have been easy to have such friendship tossed aside. I must say, I’m not surprised to see you return to Dale.”

“Oh, you know. The dragon is gone. Erebor is reclaimed. What use is there for a simple burglar?” Bilbo said lightly, putting on a brave smile. Bard rather thought that Bilbo’s smile looked forced but he said nothing about it. It was Bilbo’s choice, what he decided to share.

“So what then brings you to Dale?” he asked. “Surely you could return home now.”

Bilbo shrugged. “I wanted to offer my help in the rebuilding. I know I’m very little but I can give aid where needed.”

Bard’s expression softened. He laid a gentle hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’d be grateful for any help you can bring.”

So it was that Bilbo found himself working alongside a company of Elves to rebuild the market square. It was backbreaking work but Bilbo loved it for it distracted him from his grief. He found too that he enjoyed spending time with the Elves of Mirkwood, almost as much as he had liked being around the Elves of Rivendell. Contrary to his impressions gathered during his time in Thranduil’s halls, the Elves loved good food and good stories nearly as much as he did. They were certainly more reticent than Thorin’s Company but they laughed easily and sang often.

He was surprised to hear that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Thranduil was not nearly as heartless as he appeared. The Elven King often offered assistance to the people of Laketown in times of trouble and had ordered as many Elves as he could spare to stay behind to rebuild Dale, long before Dain had even thought of ordering the same of the Dwarves.

When Bilbo pointed out that Thranduil had offered no assistance when Smaug had first conquered Erebor, trying to reconcile the stories Thorin had told him with the image the Elves painted, the Elves merely laughed. “The dragon had already won,” they said simply. “Would you have risked the lives of your people for such a mission?”

Bilbo stubbornly maintained that he would have but the Elves looked skeptical. “He could have offered shelter,” he tried next.

“He would have,” they replied. “If Thrór had come to him.”

“Thrór shouldn’t have had to. Thranduil should have honored his promise.”

“Promise? The one extracted from the gems Thrór held hostage?”

Of course Bilbo had never heard the full story, only hearing from Thorin that Thranduil had broken a promise, and so the Elves told him of how Thranduil had willingly gone to Thrór with tribute after tribute. How the King Under the Mountain, already falling prey to gold sickness, had refused tribute after tribute, claiming it not good enough for his hoard. How Thranduil, desperate to keep trade open between Erebor and Mirkwood, had finally offered up the white gems of the Queen of Mirkwood, the only things he had left of his beloved wife. How this, out of everything else, was the only tribute Thrór would accept.

Bilbo listened sadly. He had seen gold sickness firsthand. He knew the toll it took on those it affected and he well believed that Thrór would have been capable of such actions. Even so, he still believed that Thranduil should have honored the promise he had made but then, Bilbo was an uncommonly decent person.

A week after Bilbo arrived in Dale, the news came to the city: Thorin had been moved to Erebor. Thranduil, still looking after the Dwarven king, sent the news to his people. That day, Bilbo made the trek to the Lonely Mountain, certain that he would finally be able to see Thorin. But, once again, a guard outpost turned him away long before he even reached the doors of Erebor.

The days passed quickly. After his third thwarted attempt, Bilbo threw himself into the work, doing everything in his power to ignore the growing sense that he would never see Thorin again. Slowly, with the combined efforts of Men, Dwarves, Elves, Hobbits, and Wizards, Dale resembled more of the thriving city it had once been rather than the ruins it had become.

Days turned into weeks. The city was running low on food. Word came from Thranduil: a contingent of Elves was to return to Mirkwood to gather more supplies for the winter.

Bilbo volunteered to go with them, thinking that perhaps a bit of distance would do him some good. Besides, a feeling was growing inside him that he would soon be returning to the Shire and, having never taken the actual road between Dale and Mirkwood, he would need to know the way.

The Elves were glad of his company and he of theirs. Over the last several weeks, he had grown fond of them. They would never replace the Company of Thorin Oakenshield but, as it seemed the Company had abandoned him, they were better than nothing. Their humor was slyer, more subtle- one of them asked Bilbo if the road was more comfortable than the river- but it was humor nonetheless. Their stories were more circuitous and Bilbo wasn’t entirely certain they had a point but they were still enjoyable to listen to.

It took them only a few days to travel to Mirkwood, another to gather the necessary supplies from Thranduil’s storeroom, and then they were on the road back to Dale. All told, they weren’t gone for much more than a week. But when they returned, much had changed.

Thorin had awoken.


	4. Awakenings

“He’ll live.”

Dwalin looked up from his position by Thorin’s bed. “What?” he asked, not sure he had heard Thranduil correctly.

“He’ll live,” Thranduil repeated.

Balin was pale as he whispered the words to himself. Thorin was going to live. After a sleepless week, where Thranduil had sat in silence beside Thorin working his Elven magic, where the Dwarves had practically barricaded themselves into this tent, Thorin was going to live. Once again, the pale orc had failed to kill him.

“You hear that lads?” Dain roared. “I won’t be needed here after all!” He had never sounded so delighted to be unnecessary. Balin smiled at him, knowing how worried he had been to take over the throne of Erebor.

“And what now?” Dwalin asked. “When will he wake?”

Thranduil inclined his head gently. “When he is ready.”

“What does that mean?” Dwalin said, brows furrowing.

“He will wake when he is ready. Who can say that will be?”

Dwalin surged to his feet, fury coursing through him. “When he’s ready? Why can’t he wake now?” It seemed to him that Thranduil had not done everything in his power to heal the Dwarven king.

Thranduil held up a placating hand. “I have done what I can. It is up to Thorin to continue what I’ve started.”

Balin stepped between the two before tensions could rise. “Thank you for what you have done, King Thranduil.”

Thranduil shook his head, looking vaguely annoyed. “It wasn’t for you but for the Hobbit.”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged anguished glances. It had been a week since the battle and there had been neither hide nor tail of Bilbo Baggins. No one had heard anything about him and he hadn’t been to see Thorin. If it hadn’t been for Bilbo’s actions following the battle, they almost thought that they had been mistaken in thinking Bilbo was motivated by love. But that seemed impossible. They had all seen how Thorin and Bilbo acted around each other; no one could mistake that for anything but love.

Yet… Bilbo was missing.

For now, however, there were more important issues to deal with. They could worry about one lost Hobbit after Thorin was completely safe.

“Can he be moved?” Balin asked.

“Yes,” Thranduil said, nodding slightly. “I would deem that wise.”

“Right,” Balin said, turning back to Dain and Dwalin. “We have much to do. Thorin needs to be moved to Erebor for his recovery.”

Neither Dain nor Dwalin needed an explanation. They both knew that Thorin had to be moved. Here, on the plains in front of the Lonely Mountain, he was exposed. All of them doubted that there were still any orcs or goblins left in the area but it was better to be safe. If Thorin could be moved to a fortified location, then he needed to be.

Preparations began immediately. The sooner Thorin was in that mountain, the sooner they could all breathe freely. As the Dwarves prepared to move to Thorin to a cart, Dain noticed that Thranduil was also packing his belongings.

“Leaving already?” he growled. “Thorin will survive so you return to Mirkwood?”

Thranduil raised a singular eyebrow. Dain fell silent. “I assumed I would stay with Thorin until he awoke,” Thranduil said simply as though he dared anyone to contradict him. Dain ducked his head, the only apology anyone would be able to get out of him.

The move was fairly painless. Dain hadn’t only directed his men to helping rebuild Dale. They’d been busy at the Lonely Mountain as well. Already the front door had been unblocked and a new door constructed in its place.

At first, the Dwarves sought to house Thorin in the king’s chambers but Balin took one look at the gold adorning the room and declared the chambers unfit for Thorin to live in.

“Don’t be daft,” Balin told anyone who dared complain. “He’s recovered from gold sickness once. I won’t put him through that again.”

So it was that Dain set a small contingent of Dwarves to removing the gold from the king’s chambers. Thorin instead was housed in his old rooms, far more modest and homely than Thrór’s and yet more comfortable at the same time. He had scarcely been resting there for more than a moment before Ori bustled into the room, panting.

“Dwalin, Balin, come quick!” he urged. “Kíli’s awake.”

The brothers glanced at each other. Then, as one, they hurried from their chairs and down the corridor after Ori. Fíli and Kíli had been housed not far from their uncle but the ruins of the dragon had made it so that they had to take the long way around. It was at least another half hour before they arrived at the princes’ quarters.

Dwalin made to open the door immediately but Ori stopped him. “This may come as a bit of a shock,” he said, lowering his voice. “That Elf hasn’t left his side.” When Dwalin and Balin looked confused, he continued, “The red-haired captain of the guard.”

“What does she want with Kíli?” Dwalin growled.

Ori hesitated, not entirely sure he should share this. “She’s enamored,” he said finally. “Just as he is of her.”

“An Elf?” Dwalin exclaimed, volume rising.

Ori shushed him. “Her name is Tauriel and she’s not a bad sort. She healed him in Laketown.”

“Are they happy together?” Balin asked.

Although he had to think about it for a moment, Ori had to say, “Yes. I think they are.”

“Then that’s what matters.” Dwalin looked scandalized. His brother continued, “We almost lost Kíli. I’d hate to lose him again because we don’t approve of his love… even if she is an Elf.”

Dwalin had to admit sullenly that his brother had a point but he didn’t have to like it. Truth be told, Balin didn’t like it either. He trusted Elves as little as the next Dwarf but it was important to not say anything to Kíli, who would still be recovering.

Satisfied that there would be no outbursts, Ori opened the door to the room. Kíli, closest to the door, looked up, a gleeful grin on his face. On the other side of the room, Fíli still slept but they had been reassured that he would wake soon. The rest of the Company was clustered around Kíli’s bed and there, sitting next to him, was Tauriel, the Elf-maid.

She too had looked up when the door opened but she had tensed instead of smiling. Worried lines creased her forehead. As no one said anything about her presence though, she relaxed, turning back to Kíli with a serene smile.

“Master Dwalin and Master Balin,” Kíli exclaimed. “Come to see me, have you?”

“You daft idiot!” Dwalin bellowed. “What were you thinking?”

Kíli looked slightly taken aback but he recovered readily enough. “You sent us to look around!”

“Yes, not to get yourself nearly killed. You’ve had us all worried, lad.”

There was a brief moment of silence and then Dwalin all but flung himself on to the bed to hug him. The tension was broken. Kíli wanted to hear all about how Thorin’s fight with Azog had gone- not that anyone could tell him- and what had happened to Bolg. Of course, Bofur then had to share his thrilling tales of his prowess in battle. From there, the conversation devolved into stories about past battles and daring deeds. From seemingly out of nowhere, Bombur produced sausages and mugs of ale. It was promising to be quite the party but it wasn’t to last.

Kíli scanned the group around him. “We’re missing someone,” he said. “Where’s Bilbo?”

Silence fell. The Company shuffled their feet and averted their gazes from each other.

Horrified, Kíli asked, “He’s not dead, is he?”

“No,” Balin said quietly.

“Can’t find him, can we?” Bofur remarked.

“What do you mean?”

“We all saw him just after the battle,” Balin said in that same quiet tone. “No one has seen him since.”

“He hasn’t come by?”

One by one, the Company shook their heads. Kíli frowned. This wasn’t like the Hobbit he had come to know over the last several months. The Bilbo he knew was loyal to a fault and kind and would certainly not have abandoned the Company like this.

“We have to go look for him,” he said decisively. He started to sit up. Tauriel grasped his shoulders and gently pushed him back down.

“You have to go nowhere,” she stated. “You can look for Bilbo after you’ve recovered.” The look Kíli shot her was nothing short of mutinous but she glared at him until he settled deeper into his pillows.

Tauriel turned to the others. “He needs rest and relaxation, neither of which he’s likely to get with you around. You’ve seen he’ll recover, now leave him be.” With that, she shooed the Dwarves out the door.

As the door shut firmly, Balin said, “He’s right, you know. We’ve been assuming that Bilbo would come to us but we haven’t gone to look for him.”

“I’ll go,” Bofur volunteered. “Since we all know I’m Bilbo’s favorite.”

The others tried to stifle their laughs but as soon as Ori innocently said, “No, I think Thorin’s his favorite,” they gave up. Bofur left the Lonely Mountain to shouts of laughter behind him.

Bofur made it to Dale easily enough but unfortunately, luck wasn’t with him once he got there. The people of Dale would not soon forget the way Thorin had treated them and they didn’t miss the fact that Bofur had been a member of his Company. Every person he tried to speak to didn’t want to speak with him. They were remarkably unhelpful, answering him only in grunts and even going so far as to feign ignorance when he asked about Bilbo. As night drew closer, he gave up and returned dejectedly to Erebor.

The Company was disheartened but refused to give up. Each day, they sent someone new to Dale, asking about the Hobbit. But, if they were even the slightest bit likely to talk to the Dwarves- and many were not, no one seemed to know where Bilbo had gone.

Over the next few weeks, Kíli grew stronger until, finally, Tauriel allowed him to wander the halls on his own. Although he spent most of his time by his brother’s bed, he often sat with Thorin, telling his uncle about the repairs now underway in Erebor and the comings-and-goings of the Dwarves, even though he knew Thorin couldn’t hear him. It was there that Tauriel found him one afternoon.

Thranduil swept past him to take his seat on the other side of Thorin’s bed. Kíli startled, having not realized that Thranduil had even left. Looking up, he saw Tauriel in the doorway. Strange, he thought, since she never came so close to Thorin- although, from the look on her face, he now wondered if she had been avoiding Thranduil.

She silently beckoned to him and he stood. She drew him further down the corridor, out of earshot of the Elven king. In the distance, he could hear the roars of the fires and the clanging of Dwarven hammers.

Tauriel was pacing, he realized. He’d never seen her look this anxious. On her next turn, he reached out and caught her hand, stilling her.

“I need to speak with you about something,” Tauriel said quickly.

“Amelamanin, what’s wrong?” he asked.

Tauriel smiled briefly at his mangled pronunciation. “A’maelamin,” she corrected. Kíli shrugged. He’d be able to figure it out eventually. Her smile faded as she admitted, “Thranduil has banished me.”

Kíli frowned, recalling the suppressed anger that simmered beneath the Elven king’s façade. “For what?” he asked. Tauriel was the most capable Elf he’d ever met. No one deserved banishment less than she.

“I… I abandoned my post after the river.” She looked down, slightly ashamed. She would never change what she had done but she wished that there had been a better way.

“I’m glad you did,” Kíli assured her. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”

“I don’t regret that. But I still left and, perhaps rightly, the king no longer feels that he can trust me.”

“What do you need? I’ll give it to you, I swear.”

“Sanctuary.”

Kíli stepped back, stunned. “What?”

“I need somewhere to go. I hoped to make Erebor my home as it is yours.”

Swallowing hard, Kíli looked at the open door to his uncle’s room. He wanted desperately to tell her that she could stay. He wanted to help her make Erebor her home. He wanted to see her in the halls of Erebor for years to come and yet…

“I can’t,” he said reluctantly. He looked back at her. “I want to let you stay here but I can’t. My uncle’s reign has only just begun. It isn’t the peaceful reign we’d hoped for. I can’t risk more war to let you stay, as much as I want to. It wouldn’t be fair to my uncle or to you.”

Tauriel smiled sadly. “You Dwarves and your honor,” she teased gently, reaching down to cup his cheek.

Looking at her more closely, Kíli realized that a bag was slung over her shoulder, as was her bow. She was packed to leave. “You knew?” he asked.

“I had hoped otherwise,” she said. “But I suspected this would be your answer.”

“Where will you go?”

“North.” She bit her lip as she continued thoughtfully, “My lord Legolas thought to seek shelter with the Rangers. I’ll travel to join him.”

Kíli nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure he liked her plan. There was something about the way the Elven prince looked at her that rubbed him the wrong way. But he had no right to tell her otherwise.

She bent down to kiss his cheek. “Goodbye, a’maelamin.”

“No,” he said firmly. “This is not goodbye. We’ll see each other again.”

A smile spread across her face and she nodded. Turning, she started to leave but then turned back. Taking his hand, Tauriel slipped the runestone he’d given her into his palm.

“Keep it,” she said. “As a promise.”

With those final words, she was gone. Kíli watched her go, feeling a part of him go with her. He started to wander back to his uncle’s rooms but found that he just wanted to be alone instead. He made his way to his own rooms, knowing that he’d be in peace there.

The weeks went by. Dale was quickly rebuilding, Erebor slower. Winter was now in its prime and the snow fell daily. In the absence of both king and crown prince, it was Kíli who made the decision to open Erebor to anyone who needed a warm place to stay. There were a surprising number of people who took him up on the offer, considering how hard Thorin had tried to starve them out.

Kíli woke one morning to find Fíli, eyes wide open, watching him. “Fí, you’re awake!” he exclaimed, jumping from his bed to take his place beside his brother.

Fíli smiled. “Hello, Kí,” he murmured. “What’ve I missed?”

Kíli launched into the story of the last month. He felt comfortable sharing with his brother everything, including all that had happened with Tauriel. Fíli was the one person who truly sympathized with his brother’s pain though he couldn’t relate to it himself. The others hadn’t really accepted Tauriel. They just couldn’t quite understand why he was so crushed to have her leave.

At the end, when Kíli finally told him about Bilbo, Fíli looked outraged. “Where could he have gone?” he muttered.

Shrugging, Kíli said, “Dain thinks he’s gone back to the Shire.”

“What does Dain know? Bilbo’s our friend. He wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye.” He looked at Kíli, horror dawning on his face. “What will Uncle say when he finds out?”

Knowing all too well how Thorin would feel, Kíli said, “He’d be heartbroken.”

Fire blazed in Fíli’s eyes. “Call together the Company. We’re going to Dale.”

Kíli rushed to his brother’s side as Fíli swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You know Óin won’t let you leave. You’ve only been up a few minutes.”

Fíli waved him off. “Nonsense. Give me a pony and I’ll be fine. This is more important.”

Despite Fíli’s brave words, he wasn’t nearly as stable as he wanted to be. He was barely able to stand without assistance and was completely incapable without leaning on Kíli. Kíli tried to talk him into waiting another day but Fíli refused. They’d already wasted so much time and he wasn’t going to spend another moment in that bed.

Feeling that it useless to argue with his older brother, Kíli set off through the halls to find the others. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as he’d expected. All of them wanted to go with him to find Bilbo. He had been right; Óin was reluctant to let Fíli travel with them but came to the conclusion that there was no way he would be able to stop the young prince from going, short of knocking him out again. He settled finally on a compromise- tying Fíli to the pony.

It was a merry group that set out from the Lonely Mountain. They were sure that they were going to find their burglar in Dale. With the crown prince and his popular brother in their midst, they felt certain that no one would turn them away the way they had the others.

Indeed, they were sent immediately to see Bard when they reached Dale and they expected to soon see Bilbo. But it was a king with cold fury in his eyes that greeted them in the town center.

“What business brings you to Dale, Company of Thorin Oakenshield?” he asked sharply.

Fíli looked slightly incredulous as he replied, “We’re here for Bilbo Baggins.”

Bard scoffed. “Truly? After all this time, you finally come looking for him?”

“We’ve come looking for him before,” Bofur protested.

“Have you?” Bard didn’t seem to expect an answer as he continued, “You must not have looked very hard or you would have come to speak with me.”

Bofur fell silent, realizing that he hadn’t actually asked to speak with anyone who might know where Bilbo was. He had only asked some of the townspeople, many of who had never seen Bilbo before and might not be able to distinguish between a Hobbit and a human child.

“Enough,” Fíli said. Bard’s eyes narrowed as he turned back to the Dwarven prince. “Is Bilbo here or not?”

“What will you do if he is?” he asked suspiciously. There was a low murmur of excitement from the Company. Surely that answer meant that Bilbo was indeed in Dale. “Finish what your uncle started? Throw him from the ramparts?”

“Of course not,” Fíli retorted. “Bilbo is our friend. We miss him.”

Bard was silent for a moment. He turned from Dwarf to Dwarf, seeming to weigh each in his mind, judging if their intentions were pure. Finally, he said, “I’m afraid I cannot help you. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned as though to leave.

There was a furious outcry from the Dwarves. To have come all this way, to have been given such hope, only to have it taken away?

“Why not?” Fíli yelled after him.

Bard paused and, without looking back, said, “He was here but you’re too late. He left three days ago for Mirkwood.”

“Left?” Bofur asked, hoping that it didn’t truly mean what he thought it did. “When’s he coming back?”

At this, Bard did turn back. “I don’t think he is,” he said simply. “He spoke often those last few days of returning to the Shire. Seemed to think he was needed more there than he was here.” He gave each of them a pointed look.

None of the Dwarves even noticed when Bard left, so engrossed in their own sorrow they were. Bilbo Baggins, their burglar, their Hobbit, their friend, had left them. There was talk of chasing after him but it was quickly squashed. Bilbo was at least several days ride from them through rough and wild territory and the guards could not be spared. In all of their heads was a singular, all-encompassing thought: what was Thorin going to say?

It was a very different Company that returned to the Lonely Mountain- a dejected and dispirited one. They were too late. Bilbo was gone.

Although very little changed in the Dwarven society itself, the next few days seemed quieter. Erebor no longer seemed like such a great triumph. True, they had regained their homeland but the cost was greater than any of them could have expected. Balin hesitantly proposed the idea that perhaps Bilbo had thought that his banishment was still in place. This was a concept that none of them wanted to dwell on, being too painful to consider. Dwalin had the idea to ask the guards if Bilbo had tried to see Thorin but no one reported having seen the Hobbit. Dain had sent the few guards who had indeed seen Bilbo back to the Iron Mountains.

Then came the day that they had both hoped for and dreaded.

It was Fíli who was sitting by Thorin’s bed when he heard the soft murmur of “Bilbo.” Startled, he and Thranduil both turned to Thorin, who was opening his eyes. Seeming to know that he wouldn’t be welcome, Thranduil rose and gracefully swept out of the room.

“Uncle,” Fíli breathed.

Painstakingly slowly, Thorin turned his head to look at Fíli. His gaze traveled the length of his nephew. Brows furrowing, he said in that same soft voice, “I thought you died.”

Fíli shook his head, smiling gently. “Bolg tried but I’m tougher than he thought.”

“And Kíli?”

“He lived too,” Fíli reassured him. He thought for a second about telling his uncle about Kíli’s heartbreak but decided it could wait. Thorin would have his own heartbreak soon enough.

“Good,” Thorin said, laying back to stare at the ceiling. “It is more than I deserve.”

“Don’t say that, Uncle. You’ve done so much for our people.”

Thorin scoffed gently. Yes, he had done much for the Dwarves of Erebor- and he’d hurt many others while he’d done so. He thought back to that final battle with Azog and of Bilbo, who had come to warn him even though he had no way of knowing how Thorin would react to seeing him. His eyes widened. Bilbo wasn’t with him.

“Where’s Bilbo?” he asked urgently. There were things he still needed to say to the Hobbit, things he hadn’t been able to say after the battle.

Fíli bowed his head, unable to meet Thorin’s eyes. “Uncle…” he said reluctantly. “He’s gone.”

“Dead?” he asked, blood draining from his face. It couldn’t be true. Bilbo had seemed in perfect health when he last saw him. But if Bilbo were dead, then he had no business being alive. It seemed to be too cruel a twist of fate that would take Bilbo from this world but let him live.

“No,” Fíli said quickly, sure of where Thorin’s thoughts had turned. “He… he left.”

That couldn’t be right. Thorin vividly remembered his words with Bilbo and the Hobbit had shown no sign of wanting to leave. He could recall Bilbo saying that he had been glad to share in Thorin’s adventures. Surely he wouldn’t have said that if he were planning on leaving. Unless he had been merely saying so because he thought Thorin was dying.

“Was he here at all?” Thorin asked desperately. Perhaps Bilbo meant to return to the Shire to get his affairs in order. Perhaps he would be returning. He had to know how much he meant to the Company- how much he meant to Thorin. He couldn’t have just left.

“No,” Fíli said, a touch of hurt in his voice. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

Thorin felt as though Azog had stabbed him once more. His breath left him and he couldn’t stop the anguished cry that tore from his throat. What good was being king if he didn’t have someone to share it with? He didn’t know when Bilbo had come to mean more to him than Erebor but the mountain meant nothing if Bilbo wasn’t there with him.

He managed to gasp out, “Why? He must have known he had friends here.”

Fíli looked down, unable to meet Thorin’s eyes- or maybe he was simply unwilling. As though the words were being torn from him, he said, “Balin thinks that he might have thought his banishment still stood.”

There was the knife twisting his heart. It was his own fault that his beloved had left. But surely Bilbo must have known that their friendship, their love, was stronger than the words of a mad king. No, he thought, Bilbo was not to blame here and it wasn’t fair to say he was. It was entirely his fault that the Hobbit had gone, that the Company was experiencing this pain, that his heart was breaking.

“Did he not try to see us?” he asked, feeling that this was his last hope.

An ugly frown twisted his nephew’s face. “We haven’t received word that he tried. We’ve asked the guards but no one’s heard of him.”

So that was that then. Bilbo hadn’t been to see him. Thorin had thought, after all Bilbo had said and done, that he felt the same way as Thorin himself. But he must have been mistaken. Bilbo didn’t love him the way he loved Bilbo. Well, after all, who could blame him? He, Thorin, had ruined any potential for his feelings being returned with his actions at the gate. Of course Bilbo didn’t want to see him. Of course Bilbo didn’t love him. Thorin thought again how cruel fate had been, though it was nothing less than he deserved, to keep him from stopping the Hobbit from leaving.

“Very well,” he said, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounded even as his heart shattered. “If Bilbo wishes to leave, then let him leave.”

“Uncle-”

He held up his hand to forestall anything that Fíli might say. “No. If this is what Bilbo wants, then he shall have it.”

“But-”

“Send messengers to Thranduil and Bard. I would have words with them.”


	5. The Offer

Thorin, like Fíli, was unable to stand on his own. Dwalin offered to send a litter so that he could be carried. This, Thorin refused to do. He had spent enough time putting on kingly airs, he thought. There would be no more of that from him. Instead, supported by Dwalin, he made his way slowly through the halls.

Much had changed. Kíli, in his brief stint as king, had kept the Dwarves busy repairing what they could and replacing what they couldn’t. Thorin was surprised to see Men working alongside Dwarves. Dwalin explained Kíli’s generous offer to open Erebor for the winter. Privately, Thorin thought that Kíli was already proving himself to be a better king than Thorin had been. The thought wasn’t even the slightest bit cheerful. While he was proud of his nephews, the reflection on himself was less kind.

At first, Dwalin planned to lead Thorin to the throne room. But the moment Thorin saw where they were going, he halted and refused to move any further.

“You wanted this meeting,” Dwalin growled, frustrated with Thorin’s stubbornness.

“I will not sit on that throne. I will greet them as equals and nothing less,” Thorin stated.

Dwalin was confused. As King Under the Mountain, Thorin was the rightful ruler of the Durin’s Folk. Neither Thranduil nor Bard held any claim to a throne as great as Thorin’s. They were not his equals and never would be. It wouldn’t be right to hold this meeting anywhere other than the throne room, not after everything the Dwarves had been through to reclaim it.

“You are the king,” he said slowly, wondering what Thorin’s problem was.

“What has the king brought so far but war and death?” Thorin shook his head firmly. “The antechamber off the throne room will do for this meeting.”

Dwalin searched Thorin’s face, perhaps searching for some shred of doubt, but Thorin was adamant. It wouldn’t be right to greet Thranduil and Bard seated on Erebor’s gilded throne, not after they way he’d insulted them. They were his equals, in deed if not in name, and he would treat them as such. Resigned, Dwalin sent a runner to escort the two kings to the antechamber and then set about changing his own course.

Balin, Fíli, and Kíli were already waiting for them in the antechamber, a small room with one table and a few chairs. Thorin was surprised. He hadn’t realized that they knew him so well, to be where they would be needed before he sent for them.

“Balin,” Thorin said softly once he was seated, calling his friend over.

The two clasped forearms. “It’s good to see you,” Balin said with a smile. “We thought we’d lost you, laddie.”

“Not quite,” Thorin said gently. “Will you return to the Blue Mountains?”

Balin shook his head. “As long as you will let me, I will stay here.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Thorin said, “I’d like to name you as my Head Advisor.”

Balin was touched. He’d expected that he would be welcomed in Erebor as a citizen but he hadn’t expected such an honor. Although, now that he thought of it, Thorin had often alluded to awarding the Company in ways other than gems.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing. “I would be honored.”

There was a sharp knock on the door. Quickly, Fíli and Kíli sat themselves on either side of their uncle, Balin assisting Fíli to his seat. Dwalin, as head of Thorin’s guards, stationed himself slightly behind his king.

“Enter,” Thorin said, raising his voice.

Bofur’s head appeared around the door. Thorin wondered whose idea it had been to send Bofur of all people to announce Thranduil and Bard but shrugged the thought off. Kíli had changed over the last month. Perhaps Bofur had as well.

“Announcing His Majesty, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and His Majesty, King Bard of Dale,” Bofur said seriously (yes, Bofur had indeed changed, Thorin thought).

Thorin managed to stand as Thranduil and Bard entered the room, offering them the respect they deserved. He nodded at them, which Bard returned. Thranduil merely inclined his head but Thorin hadn’t expected much more than that from the Elf. He gestured to the remaining seats, waiting until they were both seated before he too sat.

Now that he was looking at them both, Thorin had no idea what he wanted to say. But he had to begin somewhere. “Welcome to Erebor,” he said.

Thranduil simply glared at him. “Is that all you can say after all your glorious reign as caused?” he said sardonically.

“You’ve spent the last month caring for me,” Thorin said through gritted teeth. Dwalin had also told him all that Thranduil had done for him. It rankled that he owed his life to an Elf but he couldn’t deny that he was grateful.

“If you hated me so much,” he continued. “You could have left me to die.”

Thranduil opened his mouth to reply but Bard forestalled him with a touch to his arm. “Why have you called us here, King Thorin?” he asked. Despite his friendly words, his voice and eyes were cold. Reconciliation was not going to come easy.

“To apologize,” Thorin said. “I have brought ruin and death upon your people, Bard Dragonslayer, and to yours I have brought war, King Thranduil. I underestimated the power of the dragon. Your peoples paid the cost for my folly. For that, I am truly sorry.”

“Those pretty words mean nothing to the dead,” Bard retorted.

Thorin nodded mournfully. “I know,” he acknowledged. “I cannot bring them back. But I will do what I can to make reparations.”

Bard’s eyes narrowed. “What do you plan to do?”

“Firstly, by fulfilling my promises. The prophecies foretold of rivers running gold with the wealth of Erebor. I don’t know that I can change the waters of the river; but I can provide Dale with a tenth of the dragon’s treasure.”

For a moment, Bard was stunned silent. Then he shook his head, saying, “You’ve promised us a share of the treasure before. Why is now any different?”

“I understand your skepticism,” Thorin said. He glanced at Balin, who took out quill and parchment. “Send word to those working in the treasury. Before night falls, ten percent of the treasure is to be sent to Dale.”

Turning back to Bard, he continued, “I hope that will be enough to rebuild Dale and to restore at least some of its past wealth. But if it isn’t, send word and I will provide you with more. I will not forget your kindness in sheltering us.”

He then turned to Thranduil. “I can also promise you a tenth of the treasure.”

Thranduil’s eyes gleamed. He wanted the treasure greatly but… He had fought the great dragons of the north. He knew what horrors dragons could bestow on their treasure hoards. As much as he wanted the treasure, he had come here for only one thing. “I don’t need any of Erebor’s treasure, only the white gems I offered once in tribute,” he said, reminding Thorin of the conversation they’d once had.

“Then you shall have those,” he said, again waving at Balin. Balin finished writing the missive and handed it to Thorin. He signed the parchment and then handed it to Bofur, who left without a word.

“Is this all you have brought us for?” Bard asked again. “Surely you could have sent such a gift without a meeting.”

“No,” Thorin said simply. “I wish to foster peace between Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood. My reign began in war. I do not want it to continue as such. I’ve heard that my cousin and nephew have done what they can to assist in the rebuilding of Dale and that Erebor has been opened to your citizens so that they may survive the winter.”

Bard nodded. “They have and we thank them for their generosity.”

“I have been without a home before,” Thorin said softly. “I know what it is like to wander without promise of shelter. I would not see that done to anyone…” He trailed off and silence hung in the air as he considered his next offer.

Finally, he said, “Erebor need not be opened. Not when Dale can be rebuilt through the might of the Dwarves. I will send all those I can to assist you.” He turned to Balin once more. “Send all those who currently work to rebuild Erebor to Dale.”

“King Thorin,” Bard said. Thorin looked back at him, silently questioning the interruption. “I too wish to bring peace but Erebor lies in ruins just as Dale does.”

“Dale is not sheltered by a mountain,” Thorin replied. “I have wronged you and your people. I must make amends.”

Thranduil had been strangely quiet, he thought, and he turned to the Elven king. “I do not know if we brought any damage to Mirkwood so I can offer little in repairs. But I can offer Dwarven strength for future aid.”

Thranduil said nothing, instead choosing to study the Dwarf’s face. Such an offer was surprising after the heartache Thorin had brought over the last few months. He had to admit that the offer was tempting, to force the Dwarves to assist his people with the spiders. But no, he had vowed to protect the forest and he would do so until the last Elf fell.

“I will bear your offer in mind,” Thranduil said eventually.

Thorin nodded once. He had expected the Elven king to turn his offer down. It wasn’t in an Elf’s nature to accept help from a Dwarf. Honestly, he was a little gratified that Thranduil had refused the offer as it meant that he wouldn’t have to uphold a deal he found distasteful- and he did, even though he knew it was necessary.

“I look forward to the days of peace that will come,” he replied.

Again, Thranduil was silent. He still wasn’t certain that he trusted this new, generous Thorin. His experience with Dwarves had taught him that such offers were not to be believed.

“King Thranduil,” Thorin continued. “Will you stay for the rebuilding of Dale?”

“Regretfully, I can’t,” Thranduil said. “We have dangers on our own borders that we must see to. But I will continue to send food and supplies to both Erebor and Dale until they are no longer needed.”

“Thank you,” Bard said with Thorin echoing his words. “Are there other urgent matters? I’m not sure my lieutenant can manage on his own much longer.”

“One last matter,” Thorin said reluctantly. He’d been dreading this but it had to be discussed. “Fíli has mentioned that the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, has returned to the Shire, believing his banishment to be in place.” Thranduil and Bard exchanged significant glances. Thorin wondered if they’d discussed the matter before coming to speak with him.

“We’ve wondered what your intentions toward Bilbo were,” Bard said slowly, his frown deepening.

“My intention is to let his banishment stand.”

There was a stunned silence, not just from Thranduil and Bard but from his fellow Dwarves as well. Fíli had already heard Thorin’s thoughts on the matter but he hadn’t truly thought his uncle was serious. The others had all sincerely thought that Thorin would head out after Bilbo the moment he heard of the Hobbit’s departure. Thorin met their shocked gazes evenly, daring any of them to contradict him.

“You would force him to leave?” Bard finally managed to ask.

“He’s already left,” Thorin said coldly. “I’m merely keeping him from returning.”

“Why?” Bard asked. After all, Bilbo had been through, he couldn’t believe that the poor Hobbit was going to have to hear this nonsense too.

“I see no reason to lift a punishment that the punished has chosen to enforce.” Thorin knew that his words wouldn’t hold for long should Bilbo return to him but, in the meantime, he thought this would be the best way to protect his wounded heart.

“He’s spent the last month in Dale, helping where he could. Why would he have stayed if not for you to awaken?” Bard stated flatly. Where was the generosity that Thorin had shown only minutes earlier?

Thorin didn’t have a good answer to Bard’s question but it didn’t matter. “He left,” he countered.

Bard openly gaped at Thorin’s foolishness but stammered out, “So go after him.”

Thorin scoffed. “I am King of Erebor. I have matters that need to be dealt with. I cannot go after one wayward Hobbit.” Even though he wanted to do nothing else.

“You are a fool, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bard said coldly. “A fool who is making a mistake.” He stood, Thranduil rising with him. He turned to go but then turned back. “Thank you for your generosity. I too look forward to fortune smiling upon us.” Without another word, he and Thranduil had left.

They’d been gone no more than a moment before furious voices rose in anger against Thorin. “-You can’t be serious!” “-You need to go after him!” “-He can’t just leave!”

Thorin raised a hand to silence them. “Bilbo is gone,” he said, faltering over the last word. “No one regrets that more than I but he is gone. We can’t spare anyone to go after him, not with winter already here.” He paused, dreading his next words. Closing his eyes against the onslaught of pain, he continued, “We have to let him leave.”


	6. Back Again

The doors of Erebor slammed shut.

Bard whirled toward Thranduil, fury in his eyes. “Thorin is making a mistake,” he hissed.

Thranduil nodded, footsteps turning him to the long walk back to Dale. “That much is obvious,” he agreed. Bard’s anger was mirrored in the tightness of his face. His fingers, hidden in the folds of his robes, drummed a pattern against his leg. His Elves in Dale had told him that Bilbo had spent the last month in the city helping where he could, waiting for the day when Thorin awoke.

He hadn’t realized that the Dwarves had been looking for Bilbo. He would have told them where to find their Hobbit. He’d lost his own love once; he didn’t think that even Thorin deserved to lose his.

“Is the Hobbit truly gone?” he asked now.

Bard shrugged helplessly. “I thought he was,” he said. “Those last few days, he spoke often of the Shire, longing for his own home. He talked like he thought he was no longer needed here. When he left for Mirkwood, I thought that was the last we’d ever see of him.”

“But?” Thranduil prompted.

“But he didn’t share his plans with me.” Bard paused to catch his breath. “He could be coming back. I wouldn’t have told the Dwarves he’d gone if I’d known how Thorin would take it.”

“But you didn’t tell him. Why?”

Bard looked at him somberly. “You have known Thorin longer than I have. Would he have listened?”

Thranduil said nothing. He knew more of Thorin’s personality than Bard and he hadn’t found Thorin’s overreaction that surprising. Dwarves were dramatic individuals and Thorin was no different. But Bard couldn’t have known how badly the Dwarven king would blow the whole thing out of proportion. Nothing Bard could have said would have changed Thorin’s mind.

They returned to the city in silence, each mired in their own thoughts. Bain met them at the gates, clearly eager to know how the meeting had gone. Bard waved him off. He was still brooding on Thorin’s words.

“Da,” Bain said, not ready to give up. “You’ve got someone to see you.”

Bard sighed. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

Bain shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “He said it was urgent he see you as soon as you return.”

Bard groaned. He really didn’t want to have to deal with an urgent matter, not after everything he’d had to deal with so far today. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wondering if he could acknowledge the problem and then deal with it later.

“Who is it?” he asked. Bain hesitated and Bard had the sudden, sinking feeling that he knew exactly who wanted to see him.

“Bilbo Baggins, Da,” Bain said quietly. He’d heard Bard tell the Dwarves that Bilbo had left. He too had believed his father’s words. But then Bilbo had appeared before him to tell him that he needed to see Bard.

“Damn,” Bard swore under his breath. He looked at Thranduil, who would have looked placid if not for the worried crease between his eyebrows. “Where is he?”

“The big courtyard.”

Bard set off, Thranduil and Bain trailing after him. At first, Bard hoped that his son had been mistaken but as soon as he saw the small figure in the courtyard, he knew that his fear had come true. Bilbo Baggins had indeed returned.

Bilbo looked up the moment he heard the approaching footsteps. “Bard,” he breathed with a smile on his face. He’d clearly been worried. Bard was devastated that he would have to shatter the momentary relief.

“I’d heard Thorin had awoken,” Bilbo continued. Bard nodded slowly. Bilbo’s smile widened. “That’s good,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He looked back up at the trio. “I didn’t want to go to Erebor if it wasn’t true.”

“Understandable,” Bard muttered.

Bilbo looked from Bard to Thranduil, their dark expressions registering in his mind. His smile faded to be replaced by a concerned frown. “What’s happened?” he asked.

Bard didn’t know what to say. After all, this was partially his fault. Bilbo began to look angrier as the silence dragged on. Finally, Bard said, “We thought you’d left.”

Bilbo stepped back, stunned. “What?”

“Before you left for Mirkwood, you seemed like you missed home. You told me so much about the Shire. Then you left without telling anyone where you planned to go after Mirkwood. I thought you were gone for good.”

He stopped and swallowed hard. “The Dwarves came looking for you. I told them what I thought was the truth.”

“You told them I’d gone,” Bilbo murmured. He looked dazed, eyes out of focus and mouth slightly open.

Bard sighed, “I did.”

“They told Thorin,” Bilbo continued as though he hadn’t heard Bard. His attention snapped back to Bard. “I have to see him.”

Shaking his head, Bard said, “You can’t.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?” he asked, voice dangerously soft.

“Thorin won’t lift your banishment,” Thranduil said. Bilbo turned sharply to look at him.

“What?”

Thranduil’s eyes were pitying as he repeated, “Thorin won’t lift your banishment. You can’t return to Erebor.”

Bilbo stumbled back. Throwing a hand out for support, he lowered himself to the ground. His head dropped into his hands and he let out a small sob. Bard and Thranduil exchanged glances, neither sure of what to say. Behind them, Bain started to say something but his father motioned for him to be silent. Bain fell quiet and then excused himself, not wishing to intrude on the Hobbit’s grief.

“What can I do?” Bilbo said softly.

Silence answered him for no one knew what answer he wanted. Bilbo didn’t mind; he didn’t really want an answer. He knew what he could do but he didn’t want to do it. But what else was there? He was no longer welcome in Erebor, no longer a part of the Company, no longer wanted by Thorin. It no longer mattered that the Company had searched for him this past week, not when Thorin had decided that he was no longer a welcome addition to their party.

He looked up. His face was tear-streaked but his eyes were determined. He looked first at Thranduil and then at Bard.

“I’m going home.”

The two kings were startled. They weren’t certain what they had expected Bilbo to say but that hadn’t been it. Bilbo had shown himself to be resilient, determined, and stubborn; his giving up was thoroughly unexpected.

“Bilbo…” Bard pleaded. “Why would you do this?”

“I’m not welcome here anymore. I’m not needed, haven’t been since the dragon,” Bilbo said with a small shrug. “Why shouldn’t I go home?”

“You know you can’t return if you leave,” Thranduil said cautiously.

Bilbo laughed harshly. “I can’t return now. What difference would it make if I tried again in a year?” There was no answer to that. Bilbo was now nodding determinedly. “No, I’m not needed here anymore. It’s best if I return to the Shire.”

“When will you leave?” Thranduil asked, eyeing the Hobbit strangely.

“As soon as I can. There’s not much to pack, is there?” he said wryly.

“My people and I leave tomorrow for Mirkwood. There’s room for you.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Bilbo said, smiling sadly.

The next day, several hundred Elves departed for Mirkwood, along with a wizard and a Hobbit. Gandalf thought that Bilbo was making a mistake. Truth be told, Bilbo wondered if he was making a mistake too but he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to stay, to force Thorin to see him, but he knew how obstinate Thorin was. If Thorin had decided to banish him, then he would stay banished no matter what. He could stay in Dale but it would hurt too much to be so close to the Lonely Mountain. Dale wasn’t his home.

He wasn’t certain the Shire was his home either but he didn’t have much of a choice. He’d thought that Erebor could become one but that option had been snatched from him. What choice did he have but to return to the Shire and hope that it could be home once again?

“You could stay in Mirkwood.”

Bilbo jumped. He hadn’t realized that Thranduil had dropped back to ride beside him. “How did you know what I was thinking?” he asked. A thought occurred to him and his eyes widened. “Can you know what I’m thinking?”

“No,” Thranduil said, the barest trace of a smile gracing his face. “But I know a little of loss and what must be going through your mind.”

“Then you know that I can’t stay in Mirkwood, much as I’d like to.”

“I know,” Thranduil said, nodding. “Then know this: you will always be welcome in my halls, Bilbo Elf-Friend.”

Several nearby Elves broke their calm facades and openly gaped at their king. Bilbo glanced uneasily at them, wondering what sort of honor he’d just been given. Apparently satisfied, Thranduil spurred his horse on and rode back to the front of the column.

Bilbo turned his head toward Gandalf though his eyes kept returning to the stunned Elves. “Gandalf,” he said in a low voice. “What is an Elf-friend?”

“An honor,” Gandalf said proudly. “You’ve been given the highest honor that can be given to any person.”

“Yes, I understood that but what does it mean?”

“It means…” Gandalf trailed off thoughtfully, trying to determine the best way to explain it. “It’s an honor that can only be given by an Elven king. I am an Elf-friend, as is Lord Elrond. It means that you will always be welcome in any Elven dwelling, that you are under their protection. It simply means that you’re a friend to the Elves.”

“How many are there?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Gandalf’s brow wrinkled in thought. “I think I can name maybe ten.”

Bilbo fell silent, understanding now the reaction the Elves had had. Less than ten… this must be a high honor indeed. He wasn’t entirely certain he deserved it. After all, what really had he done? He’d tried to stop a war but hadn’t he partially caused it as well? When he said as much to Gandalf, the wizard cryptically answered, “That’s why you do deserve it,” like that was any great help.

Bilbo spent much of the journey silent. He no longer had the hope of seeing Thorin again, indeed of seeing any of his friends. He had grown very fond of the Dwarves, had grown to love their king. To be faced with the possibility of never seeing any of them again, to never watch Fíli and Kíli try to prank Dwalin, to never listen to one of Balin’s stories, to never hear Bofur play the flute, was almost more than he could bear. After the gate, he had been faced with that possibility but then, after the battle, he’d been given such hope. He had known that there would be the chance that Thorin would decide to uphold his words at the gate but he hadn’t really thought that he would do so.

His heart ached. He had grown used to having Thorin in his life. He didn’t know what he was going to do without the grumpy Dwarf.

“Bilbo, you’re just going to have to go on without him,” he told himself firmly. “You’ll manage the way you always have: alone.” The thought wasn’t even the slightest bit comforting. He hadn’t realized how lonely his past lifestyle had been.

Gandalf left him alone. He knew that it was time and space that Bilbo needed. An old chatterbox crowding him would only make it all worse. When Bilbo wanted to talk, he would be there.

At times, Bilbo wondered how this journey would have been different if Thorin had died on Ravenhill. That thought was even more depressing than the reality he now faced. He tucked that one away in a back corner of his mind.

The journey to Mirkwood was far slower than the Bilbo had taken with the Elves only a week earlier. Their group- Bilbo refused to think of them as a company- had grown enormously in size and the king was with them, slowing them down much further. All told, it was well over a week before they arrived on the borders of the forest.

Thranduil offered both Bilbo and Gandalf a home in his halls for a time if they wished to rest. Bilbo refused the offer, saying that he wished to see his home again as soon as possible. Gandalf too decided to refuse the offer, choosing to travel with Bilbo instead. Understanding, Thranduil sent them on their way with an Elven guard.

Bilbo was surprised to see how much easier the journey through the forest was with an Elf to guide them. The forest was still dangerous but it wasn’t the perilous undertaking the Company had seen. There were rest stops for food and water if only a traveler knew where to look. Bilbo wondered how often the Company had been close to salvation.

They made it through the forest with no trouble but Bilbo was still glad to see Mirkwood behind them. They parted with the Elves at the border with Gandalf warning them of the dangers of letting the spiders roam the forest and of letting the path fall into disrepair. The Elves promised to tell Thranduil of all Gandalf had told them and then they melted back into the shadows.

Beorn met them not far from the edge of Mirkwood. As he said, the lands between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains still weren’t entirely safe. The two would need an escort to the mountain pass.

“Can you go with us through the mountains too?” Bilbo asked. Beorn just laughed, not exactly a reassuring answer.

Beorn of course wanted to know why Bilbo was returning to the Shire instead of remaining in Erebor. Bilbo didn’t know what to tell him. So he settled on- “Thorin didn’t want me there anymore.”

Taken aback, Beorn replied, “He wanted you there. He wanted you more than he wanted that mountain.”

Bilbo shook his head. “Maybe. But he didn’t want me more than the Arkenstone.”

Beorn growled, a low rumbling that had Bilbo half-stepping away in fear. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like Dwarves.”

“No,” Bilbo said quietly. “This is my fault. I betrayed him. Him and his damn honor.”

It was the first time he’d said such a thing aloud. Both Beorn and Gandalf looked at him in alarm. Whatever else might have happened, they knew this one thing was not Bilbo’s fault. The blame for this rested solely on Thorin’s shoulders. Thorin had been given the chance to make things right and he’d chosen to listen to the whims of his mad self. But Bilbo had been thinking about this for some time and he was convinced. It was his own fault that he was now on his way back to the Shire. After all, he had been the one to steal the Arkenstone. He had betrayed the trust of the Company, had forced Thorin’s hand.

“You should not be leaving,” Beorn said. “You should not give up. Like people belong together.”

Bilbo looked up at him. “Wouldn’t I belong in the Shire then?” he asked sarcastically.

“That isn’t what I meant, little Hobbit,” Beorn said gently. “I know what it’s like to live life alone. A life alone isn’t life at all.”

“I would go back now,” Bilbo said. “If I thought Thorin still wanted me there. But he doesn’t.” Gandalf looked like he was going to say something but Bilbo held up a hand. “Don’t. I’m going home.”

For all that they didn’t agree with him, Gandalf and Beorn had to let Bilbo make his own decisions. He may have looked like a child but he wasn’t one. It was his choice to leave or stay. But it wasn’t right that he go on thinking it was his fault; Gandalf resolved to tell him that as soon as he could.

They had an uneventful journey to the Misty Mountains, although Bilbo thought that might have partially been because of Beorn. At the base of the mountains, Beorn bid them goodbye. To Bilbo, he privately told the Hobbit to reconsider his choice. Bilbo smiled sadly and wished Beorn all the best.

“I hope to see you again one day,” he said. “If you’re ever in the Shire, tea is at four. There’s plenty of it. You are welcome anytime.”

Bilbo dreaded going over the Misty Mountains via the High Road. It hadn’t worked out so well for them the last time. But he didn’t see another way over the mountains, not without traveling many days to either the north or south. He suspected that Gandalf might know of another route but the wizard wasn’t saying anything if he did. But he and Gandalf benefitted from their first trip. They knew what a goblin trap looked like and were able to avoid them easily. The miles flew beneath their feet and soon they were looking down at the Hidden Valley.

This, perhaps, was the part of the journey Bilbo looked forward to the least. Elrond was far too understanding for his comfort. He knew that they could avoid Rivendell; the road to the Shire bypassed the valley entirely. However, he felt as though they owed it to Lord Elrond. The elf had been beyond helpful on their quest. It would be rude to avoid him after all he’d done for them.

So it was that they traveled into the Hidden Valley. Elrond first greeted Gandalf with an embrace and then Bilbo with the same, a move that both surprised and gratified the Hobbit. They were invited to stay as long as they wanted. At first, Bilbo thought to refuse the offer the same way he had the others. But now that he was on this side of the Misty Mountains, the thought of returning to the Shire was much less appealing.

West of the mountains, it was so much more apparent that he would never again return to the Lonely Mountain, to the Company, and to Thorin. Returning to Bag End meant facing a lifetime of banishment, a banishment that he wasn’t ready to face, and so several months after arriving in Rivendell, they were still there.

Bilbo often hid himself in the nooks near the Shards of Narsil. The first time he had been to Rivendell, he had found the broken sword but didn’t know anything about its history. He had later taken the time to ask Gandalf about the sword when they’d left the goblin tunnels. At times, he wondered about the ring he’d found in the caves but he thought for certain his magic ring couldn’t possibly be the missing One Ring.

As it was, he liked to rest in the alcoves around the sword. He would take a small cup of tea with him and one of the many books Elrond had tucked away in his library and read for hours. It was nice to escape into the troubles of another mind for a few hours.

It was there that Elrond found him on a sunny afternoon. Bilbo had curled into a chair, so engrossed that it was only when Elrond seated himself on the floor next to him that he realized he was no longer alone. Bilbo moved to stand but Elrond patted the air next to him.

“I’m not yet so old that I can’t sit on the ground,” Elrond said calmly. Bilbo settled back down.

There was a long silence. Bilbo wondered if he could open his book again but then-

“Gandalf told me you plan to return to the Shire.”

Bilbo’s gaze moved to a point on the far wall. This conversation would be far easier if he didn’t have to look at the Elf. “Yes,” he said simply.

“He also told me that you thought first to return as soon as you could.”

Almost against his will, Bilbo’s eyes jerked to him. There was no judgment in Elrond’s eyes, only a sad understanding. It was clear that Gandalf had told him everything that had transpired at the Lonely Mountain. For a moment, he was offended that the wizard had told him. But, if anyone had to know, he was somewhat glad it was Elrond who knew.

“I’m not ready,” he admitted. Elrond waited patiently until he continued, “To go back.”

“Those weren’t your words a month ago,” Elrond reminded him. “Those weren’t even your words when I first met you.”

“I’ve changed. I think,” Bilbo explained. “When I left the Shire, I thought I was only going because I signed a contract.” He inclined his head a little. “Well… I suppose I wanted the adventure too but those first weeks, the only thing keeping me from turning back was the thought of that contract. I didn’t even like the Dwarves. But then they became my friends. Then I grew fond of Thorin. Then I saved them from spiders and from the cages of Mirkwood. Then I fought a dragon for them and then…” He paused as he tried not to let the memories overwhelm him. “Then I watched as Thorin went mad, looking for the Arkenstone, knowing that I had it, and I thought that I couldn’t give it to him. That if I did, he would only get worse. He was already refusing to uphold his promises. So I gave it away. I just wanted to save him. But he banished me and then he nearly died. I nearly watched him die and I hadn’t told him.”

His voice broke and his throat closed with unshed tears. Tactfully, Elrond looked away so Bilbo could dry his eyes. He sighed deeply. The pain of losing Thorin hadn’t lessened over the last two months.

“We talked. After the battle. He thought he was dying. I thought he was dying. He told me he wanted to take back his words at the gate. I thought he meant my banishment. But I was wrong. He hadn’t even been awake for a day before he said I was unwelcome in Erebor and it’s all my fault for taking the Arkenstone.”

“Gandalf said you tried to see him but couldn’t.”

“I thought I could explain it when the rest of the Company came for me. But they never did.”

“So you sought to return home,” Elrond finished for him. “But now you’re not sure.”

Bilbo nodded silently. Elrond’s hand came up to rest on Bilbo’s knee. The Hobbit’s hand moved to cover the Elf’s. For a moment, the only noise was the wind rushing through the trees.

“I thought it was the right thing,” Bilbo eventually said, “to give Thorin time and space. But now that I’m on the other side of the mountains he seems so much further away. If I go back to the Shire, the distance will be even longer and I don’t know what to do.”

“You have a choice, Bilbo Baggins,” Elrond said. “To return to the Shire or to return to the Lonely Mountain.”

Bilbo looked at him, startled. He hadn’t even thought of going back to the Lonely Mountain. It had seemed to him that the only option was traveling to the Shire. He had just been trying to delay the end as long as he could.

Elrond continued, “But it seems to me that you are mistaken… This is not your fault.”

“I took the Arkenstone,” Bilbo said, confused. “I betrayed the Company.”

“Yes, you did. But Thorin had the chance to reconsider his actions and he didn’t. It seems to me that the blame no longer lies with you.”

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. Elrond gracefully stood while he was still gaping and left him. He spent hours pondering Elrond’s words. Was it true that it was no longer his fault? Yes, he had stolen the Arkenstone but he had done everything he could to rectify his actions. He had gone to Ravenhill, he had asked Thranduil for help, he had tried to see Thorin, he had waited. He didn’t know when the Company had decided to go looking for him but he felt that they must not have tried very hard. It hadn’t been like he would have been difficult to locate. Thorin hadn’t even bothered to go out after him. More than that, he not only neglected to lift the banishment but chose to enforce it. If Thorin had merely forgotten to say anything about it, Bilbo would have forgiven him in an instant. But Thorin hadn’t forgotten it. He had even had another Dwarf tell Bilbo, instead leaving it to Bard and Thranduil to tell him.

The more Bilbo thought about it, the more he became convinced that Elrond was right. Perhaps his banishment had been his fault at first but it was not so any longer. Thorin had had a choice and he’d chosen to uphold his past decrees.

Where then to go? The Lonely Mountain or the Shire?

He had changed much over the last several months but Bilbo was still a Hobbit. He still missed the hills and rivers of the Shire. He still wanted to plant the acorn he’d taken from Beorn’s garden. His heart longed for Bag End, for his armchair and his pantry and his little round door.

It was time to go home.

He found Gandalf and Elrond that night. He thanked Elrond profusely for the home and for the advice. Then he turned to Gandalf and said he was ready to leave. Gandalf said nothing to try to change his mind though he still thought Bilbo was making a mistake. But this was Bilbo’s choice.

The next morning saw the pair setting out from Rivendell. Like the rest of their travels to this point, the journey to the Shire was far less eventful than the journey from. Bilbo stopped at the cave in the Trollshaws to pick up the chest that the Company had buried so long ago. The rest of the treasure he left. He had seen what harm could be done by claiming a treasure that evil had brooded on. He wanted no part of it.

It was a bright summer morning when they came to the borders of the Shire. Bilbo had been gone for over a year. He could scarcely believe it had been that long. He couldn’t see Bag End from where he stood but he could imagine how it would look.

“Ah the borders of the Shire,” Gandalf said, startling Bilbo out of his reverie. “It is here I must leave you.”

Bilbo grimaced. He’d been expecting such an answer but that didn’t mean he had to like it. “That’s a shame,” he told the wizard. “I quite like having a wizard around. Seems they bring good luck.”

Gandalf eyed him warily. “You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck?” He looked like he dared Bilbo to contradict him before continuing, “Magic rings should not be used lightly, Bilbo.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest but Gandalf cut him off- “Don’t take me for a fool- I know you found one in the goblin tunnels…and I’ve kept my eye on you ever since.”

The Hobbit smiled self-deprecatingly. He should have known better than to assume Gandalf wouldn’t have figured it out.

“Thank goodness,” he said truthfully. He had been worried about the power of his ring. It was good to know that someone had been looking out for him.

His smile faded as he realized that here was the end of his adventure. It had been the best time of his life- and the worst- and now it was over. He hitched his bag back over his shoulder and held his hand out to Gandalf.

“Farewell, Gandalf.”

Smiling proudly at how his burglar had turned out, Gandalf shook his hand. “Farewell.”

Bilbo started to walk away and then stopped and turned back. He was glad that Gandalf had been keeping an eye on him but the adventure was over. He didn’t know what he would ever use the ring for again and thought it might just sit on the mantel. He didn’t want a wizard looking over his shoulder if that were the case.

“You, uh, you needn’t worry about that ring,” he called. “It fell out of my pocket during the battle. I lost it.”

Gandalf looked strangely relieved, far more than he should have been for a simple magic ring… and yet, there was an apprehensive look like he wasn’t entirely certain he believed Bilbo.

“You’re a very fine person, Mister Baggins, and I’m very fond of you,” he called back, almost sounding like he was warning him. “But you’re only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all.”

Well, he couldn’t just leave it like that now could he?

“You know,” Bilbo said, walking back just a bit. “What I said to Beorn, it’s for you too. You are always welcome at Bag End. Tea is at four. Don’t bother knocking.”

Gandalf smiled. “A fine person indeed,” he said softly.

Bilbo turned and began walking back to the Shire. After a moment, Gandalf also turned and walked back to his horse. The closer Bilbo got to Bag End, the faster he went. He was now eager to be home. As he passed each familiar landmark, his longing for home grew until it was almost a painful ache in his heart. He had never fully understood Thorin’s longing for Erebor, until now.

As he began the winding path up the last of the hills, he began passing people with various furniture pieces and small knickknacks. He thought that someone must have died; after all, it had to be an auction going on. Then he recognized one of the pieces.

“Wait a minute…” he murmured. “That’s my mother’s glory box!” He turned to see- “And that’s my dining chair.” He continued up that path, now hurrying. “Ah, put that pouf down! What is going on?”

Another Hobbit with a wheelbarrow set it down and cheerfully said, “Hello, Mister Bilbo!” He suddenly realized who he was talking to and his eyes widened. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Bilbo stared at him, mouth slightly agape. To reproach him when they were making off with his furniture!

“What do you mean?” he asked furiously.

“On account of you being presumed dead and all.”

Of all the answers that could have come out of the Hobbit’s mouth, that one had not been least expected. But he shook the surprise off. He now knew why his things were being carted off and he had to do something about it. He hitched his bags back up and set off down the path.

“I am not dead,” he threw back over his shoulder. “Presumed or otherwise.”

As he hurried up the hill, passing many other Hobbits with his things, the other Hobbit yelled at him, “I’m not sure that’s permitted, Mister Bilbo.”

Bilbo muttered to himself, “I’m not sure I care.”

A sign in front of Bag End came into view:

For Sale, by Auction

The Effects and Estate of

The Late Mr. Bilbo Baggins, Esq.

10 o’clock Sharp, June the 22nd

Messrs Grubb, Grubb, and Burrowes

Registered Auctioneers

Even from far off, Bilbo could hear the auctioneer yelling things like “Twenty-one! Sold to Mrs. Bolger! Somewhere for Fatty to put his feet on!” “Do I have any bids for this? This is Shire-made! None of your dwarvish reproductions here!”

“You wish you could get a dwarvish reproduction,” Bilbo muttered angrily.

As the auctioneer began the next round, Bilbo ran up to him. “Stop! Stop! There’s been a mistake!”

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins looked furious as she saw him, even going so far as to ask, “Who are you?”

Bilbo’s jaw dropped open. The nerve of this woman! “What do you mean, who am I? You know perfectly well who I am, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins! This is my home!” His eyes fell on what she was carrying. “And those are my spoons, thank you very much!” He snatched as many of the spoons as he could carry from her tray. She huffed.

“This is most irregular,” the auctioneer said. Bilbo pushed his way closer so he could stare down the man. “It’s been more than thirteen months since the disappearance. If you are, in fact, Bilbo Baggins and undeceased, can you prove it?”

“What?” Bilbo exclaimed. Of course he was Bilbo Baggins! Anyone with eyes could see that!

“Oh, well, something official with your name on it would suffice,” the auctioneer said like it was a perfectly reasonable request and not the absurdist thing Bilbo had ever heard of.

“Alright. Right,” Bilbo said. He threw down the spoons and made his way up to the auctioneer’s block. He dug in his pocket for a moment. His hand closed on a scrap of parchment and he pulled it out, wondering what it was.

“A contract,” he said, heart clenching at the sight of the old thing. He hadn’t realized he still had it with him. “Of employment as a bur- as a-” He stopped, realizing that employment as a burglar was probably not the best thing to admit to.

He eyed the auctioneer shiftily and said, “Never mind as what.” He showed it to the man and pointed out his handwriting. “There! My signature!”

The auctioneer plucked it from his hands and examined it closely. “Uh, certainly seems to be in order,” he said slowly. There were groans from the crowd. Bilbo scoffed and began mounting the stairs to his house.

“Yes,” the auctioneer said, finishing his perusal. “Seems there can be no doubt.” His gaze stopped on a different section of the contract.

“Who is this person you pledged your service to?” he asked. He looked back down at the contract to double check the name. “Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He closed his eyes against the painful memories threatening to drag him under. How dare that man say Thorin’s name so casually? He turned back to the crowd, all of who seemed to be hanging onto Bilbo’s words.

“He was my friend.”


	7. Mad Baggins

Restoring order was therapeutic. Of course there was a lot of fuss at Bilbo’s return and not everyone was pleased to see him return, contrary to their claims. But it was nice to be busy. Much the way the rebuilding of Dale had, the restoration of Bag End distracted him from his grief.

His first few weeks back, he spent very little time at Bag End. He was too busy running around the Shire tracking down his missing belongings. The rest of his time was spent in his lawyer’s office trying to get himself reinstated as “alive” rather than “presumed dead.” It wasn’t easy. He kept having to bring out Thorin’s contract only to be accused of stealing it from the real Bilbo. He was thoroughly confused by the show of hostility until he realized that the lawyer had been at the auction and claimed his belongings for his own. Eventually, he had to ask the Thain for an intervention.

Some several months after his return, Bilbo found that he had nothing left to do. He had tracked down as many of his belongings as he could. He’d had to buy back many of the items- after all, his possessions had been steeply discounted at the auction. If he was still missing any items (and he suspected that he was missing at least a few spoons), he rather thought that they were unlikely to turn up now.

He settled down in his restored home. In a nearby field, he planted the acorn he had taken from Beorn’s garden. He sold some of the treasure he’d gained and invested the rest. Bilbo’s family had always been wealthy but the gains from the treasure were impressive even to him. He bought a few new comforts- gold buttons for his waistcoat, an expensive bottle of wine, and the like. Not long after arriving, he received a gift sent from Lord Elrond: a translation guide to Khuzdul, written by the Elven lord himself. Bilbo briefly considered tossing it out but he decided to keep it. Why he thought he needed a translation guide for a language he would never hear again, he wasn’t sure but it felt important to him.

Bilbo set about teaching himself the Dwarvish language. Having been immersed for so long in the culture, he found that picking up the language wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would. But the translation guide was nothing like having a Dwarf teaching him and he soon realized that the book would only be able to take him so far.

At first, he welcomed the calm and quiet. The quest for the Lonely Mountain had been frenzied, interspersed with tense inactivity. He had been surrounded by noisy, energetic Dwarves and now he was alone.

He had said it himself: he was a changed Hobbit. The peaceful, sleepy life he’d led no longer held the same appeal. He was beginning to understand that life couldn’t return to the way it had once been. He missed the open road, the journey to a destination he’d never seen, the sense of a greater purpose. He missed the Company- Bofur’s lighthearted comments, Fíli and Kíli’s pranks, Dwalin’s gruff exterior hiding a soft heart.

More than anything, he missed Thorin. He missed how Thorin would lead them in a direction only to be hopelessly lost minutes later. He missed the way his eyes softened when he watched his nephews. He missed how, after the events in the Misty Mountains, Thorin treated everything Bilbo did like it had been blessed by the Valar themselves.

Bilbo had known this would happen. He had expected the crushing sense of banishment to hit even harder once he returned to the Shire. But he hadn’t expected how everything he looked at would remind him of what he had lost. He planted the acorn because he couldn’t bear hearing “Plant your trees” over and over again. He loaned the mithril shirt to a museum so he wouldn’t have to see Thorin gifting it to him each time he looked at it. He hid Sting in a trunk in a back corner of Bag End where he didn’t have to pass by it and think of those last moments on Ravenhill.

But despite the pain, he knew that he didn’t want to forget a single moment. So he wrote about his adventures. He didn’t think anyone would read them (actually he knew no one would read them; the other Hobbits wouldn’t acknowledge his adventures) but he wrote anyway. There was a lengthy history of Erebor and a brief collection of short stories about Fíli and Kíli’s antics. He had a small recipe book containing the meals Bombur had managed to wrangle out of the sparse wildlife. He wrote an entire novel about the quest for Erebor that had every little detail, including his relationship with Thorin, and called it _There and Back Again_. This one was too painful to read so he rewrote it as a children’s story and titled it _The Hobbit_.

His days fell into a routine. In the mornings, he cooked and cleaned Bag End. In the afternoons, he wrote. On Mondays and Thursdays, he went into Hobbiton for Market Day.

Market Days were Bilbo’s least favorite days. There were few Hobbits that approved of his adventures and mutterings followed him everywhere he went. He was no longer a respectable Hobbit according to the other inhabitants of the Shire. The name “Mad Baggins” floated after him like a dark storm cloud. Although he didn’t mind a few comments here and there, the nonstop gossip grated on him.

He often wished that he could go on another adventure, if only to escape the gossip for a bit. But, like the Dwarves, Gandalf seemed to have abandoned him. Bilbo had been certain that Gandalf would be by often but it was coming up on a year after his return and he had seen neither hide nor hair of the wizard.

On the first anniversary of his eventful return to the Shire, Bilbo realized that there really wasn’t anything keeping him from another adventure. True, he would be traveling on his own rather than with a company but he didn’t think he was ready for another group anyway. That very night, he set out for Bree.

He wasn’t certain when he would return to Bag End so he informed his solicitor that the Gamgees, his gardeners, had ownership of the house until he returned. He trusted the Gamgees to refrain from making off with his belongings.

It took him a little over three days to reach Bree. He’d never been to Bree before. Once he might have been awed by the close streets and towering buildings. But he’d seen the architectural marvels of Erebor and now he just thought that the town was too cramped. He intended to stay at one of the inns, the Prancing Pony, for a few days before returning to Hobbiton.

Instead, he decided that he wasn’t quite ready to return to Bag End and to the whispered jeers of the other Hobbits. He spent a week in Bree before deciding that he wanted to visit Rivendell.

He debated if he needed to spend time preparing but ultimately decided against it. Bilbo was an accomplished forager like many Hobbits and he could purchase salted pork in town to bring with him. He would need to buy a pony but that wouldn’t be too difficult. In fact, he was able to find one fairly quickly, a lovely roan called Posy. He sent a letter back to the Shire, informing the Gamgees that he was going to be gone longer than he’d expected.

His biggest decision was whether he wanted to hire a guide or not. He knew the way to Rivendell well enough, having traveled the road twice, but he doubted that the road had gotten safer in the year since he’d last traveled it. He’d had the foresight to bring Sting with him but he knew it wouldn’t be much help against a horde of goblins. Ultimately, his problem was solved for him when he discovered that there were no guides to be found in Bree at the moment.

Well, he mused, at least he still had his magic ring, contrary to what he’d told Gandalf. He knew that the wizard had told him not to use the ring lightly but surely using it for protection on the road wasn’t using it lightly. No matter; he was going to use it anyway.

The journey to Rivendell seemed longer than the last time he’d traveled there. Bilbo thought that it must be because this journey was marked with silence unless he was talking to himself or Posy. But at least it was an uneventful journey. Whether that was because he was less obtrusive than a company of Dwarves or because of the ring, which he wore for most of the journey, he was unsure.

Elrond was delighted to see Bilbo (Lindir less so- he still remembered the Dwarves) and welcomed the Hobbit to Rivendell as warmly as he always did. Bilbo made himself at home in the library the way he had the last time he’d been there. Each evening, he was invited to dine with Elrond and his family and each night, he fell asleep to the singing of the Elves.

Once again, Bilbo considered staying in Rivendell for the rest of his life but he knew that this wasn’t the life he was meant for. He was called to the Shire and to Bag End and so, after a month with the Elves, he left to return home.

He was surprised though to discover that he wouldn’t be traveling alone though. Elrond sent his own sons, Elladan and Elrohir, with him to ensure that he made it home safely. With the two Elves, the trip home was far more enjoyable than the last time. The twin Elves were as bad as Fíli and Kíli with their lighthearted jokes and harmless pranks. Until those two, Bilbo had had a view of Elves as being joyous but rather stately. Elladan and Elrohir completely flipped that view over.

All told, he was sad to leave them at the borders of the Shire but they promised to visit as often as they could. In return, Bilbo promised to visit Rivendell at least once a year. The twins pushed for visits more often but he knew perfectly well that he couldn’t abandon Bag End that frequently.

In contrast to Rivendell, Bag End was even lonelier than usual. Bilbo wondered what had happened to him that he was no longer happy living as a bachelor. He refused to consider the answer- that Thorin Oakenshield had made him contemplate a family- and shoved it as far back into the recesses of his mind as he could.

Not long after his return to Bag End, his quiet life was shattered by the arrival of a visitor.

“You’re not sending me on another adventure, are you?” he asked as he cracked open the door.

“My dear Bilbo, I thought you liked adventure!” Gandalf exclaimed, chuckling lightly.

Bilbo couldn’t pretend to be angry with the wizard and he threw the door open wider. He hurtled outside to hug Gandalf tightly, a hug that was matched by his friend. “Where have you been?” he asked, voice muffled by Gandalf’s robes.

Gandalf grimaced. “Looking,” he said simply.

Bilbo wasn’t ready to accept the wizard’s cryptic answers. “For what?” he pushed.

But Gandalf could be just as pushy as Bilbo and he repeated, “Just looking.”

Bilbo took this to mean that he wasn’t going to get a straight answer no matter how hard he pushed. Well, sometimes wizards were like that, he reflected. He motioned Gandalf inside with a wave of his hand. Gandalf’s keen eyes took in everything, including the lack of Sting and the mithril coat. He was surprised; Bilbo’s adventure might have ended badly but he hadn’t thought that the Hobbit would want to hide everything away. Even so, he kept his mouth shut. There was a time to offer advice, he knew, and a time to remain quiet. The time for advice was soon to come but, for now, he would let Bilbo live his life as he chose.

Gandalf remained at Bag End for some time. He had traveled much over the last year, looking for whatever it was he was looking for, and he was full of news of far-off places, both familiar and unfamiliar. While he was still unwelcome in Erebor, he had been to Mirkwood and was pleased to report that Thorin and Thranduil had brokered peace and trade between their two kingdoms- “At least they finally saw reason.” Dale had been rebuilt- “You’d hardly know it was once ruins-” and Bard was widely regarded as a just king.

Toward the end of Gandalf’s visit, Bilbo finally worked up the courage to ask something that had been on his mind. “Why haven’t you come back earlier?” he said quietly. “Aren’t you my friend?”

Gandalf smiled. “Of course I am, my dear Hobbit,” he said reassuringly. He sighed deeply. “I thought you needed time and perhaps a bit of space.”

Looking around Bag End, he murmured, “But I wonder if I gave you too much.”

Bilbo frowned. After a moment, when it became clear that Gandalf was not planning to explain himself, he ventured to ask, “What do you mean?”

“Where is Sting?” Gandalf replied. “Where is the mithril coat? You are changed, Bilbo, and you cannot simply forget your adventures.”

Bilbo didn’t respond. He didn’t have a good answer for Gandalf. Truth be told, he knew that the wizard was right. It was past time for him to acknowledge the events of Thorin’s quest. Maybe it had been too painful to think about a year ago but Bilbo had healed enough to travel all the way to Rivendell. He could have a sword and a coat of armor out. The next morning, Gandalf noticed Sting hanging above the mantelpiece and, later in the day, the reappearance of the mithril coat on a stand in the entryway. By the time he left, Bilbo was quite content to reminisce about the quest to Erebor.

Time passed. Gandalf was a frequent visitor to the Shire, Elladan and Elrohir coming only slightly less often. As he refused to stop his adventures, the mutterings of “unnatural Bilbo” and “mad Baggins” continued to follow him wherever he went in the Shire (it probably didn’t help that he refused to marry- not that weren’t a few offers from pretty young Hobbit women). The worrisome state of his mind decreased the flow of visitors to his front door, which Bilbo didn’t mind. He was rather delighted that he didn’t have to deal with irritating visitors. In fact, the only Hobbit visitors he received were the younger children who wanted to hear his stories.

Then of course, there was his family. Bilbo was sure that most of them would have loved to reject him from the Baggins family name if it weren’t for the fear that they would lose out on their part of the inheritance of his wealth. So he was stuck accepting his family whenever they came to call. Lobelia in particular seemed to enjoy stopping by at least once a week so that she could berate him for ruining the family name and so that she could steal the silverware (not that she ever got any farther than down the hill with it). Bilbo stopped answering the door to her.

A more common visitor was his cousin, Drogo, and his wife, Primula. They at least believed that family was family, no matter how odd. They never questioned Bilbo’s adventures, instead asking him politely how his trip to Bree or Rivendell had been. Their son, Frodo, was born three years after Bilbo’s dramatic return to the Shire. At first, Bilbo wasn’t entirely certain he liked Frodo (he wasn’t particularly fond of children) but he found that the young fauntling had a thirst for adventure that rivaled his own and a penchant for mischief that rivaled Fíli and Kíli. Soon after, Frodo became a welcome visitor to Bag End and, as soon as he could walk on his own, he spent most of his time at Bilbo’s home listening to his stories.

Bilbo never stopped his mini-adventures, as he liked to call them. Once a year, he traveled to Rivendell to spend a few months with the Elves. More frequently, he traveled to Bree. Although not entirely common, Hobbits were not an unusual sight in Bree and he relished in his anonymity.

Anyone who asked was told that he liked to go to Bree for the beer. This was a complete lie, as any Hobbit knew that the best brew was found at the Green Dragon in Bywater. The truth was he liked to go to Bree for the news. More specifically, he liked to go for the news about Erebor.

In the years following the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain, trade between Erebor and the Blue Mountains had become more common. It was not unusual to see caravans of Dwarves staying at the Prancing Pony on their way to or from Erebor. Bilbo liked to sit himself as close as he could to the Dwarves and unobtrusively eavesdrop on their conversations. It was in this way that he learned that Erebor was flourishing under the reign of King Thorin, that the rivers were indeed running gold with treasure, and that Thorin’s reign was being hailed as a new Golden Age.

Bilbo delighted in hearing that Thorin was doing well but he longed for news about the rest of the Company as well. He missed them all, even Glóin and Bifur with whom he’d had few interactions. Unfortunately, the members of the Company, while deemed heroes, were not considered important news.

Some five years after his return to the Shire, Bilbo huddled by the fire in the Prancing Pony, bundled in his warmest cloak. It was a cold and stormy night and so his hood was pulled down low over his face, trapping as much heat as he could. On the other side of the room, a group of Dwarves was talking noisily but Bilbo was much too cold to consider getting up to move closer to them. News of Erebor could wait another night.

Then he heard a familiar voice.

He turned around and spied a white-haired Dwarf that he knew very well. Balin was in the Prancing Pony. Quickly, Bilbo turned back to the fire, pulling his hood even further over his face. Hopefully, Balin hadn’t seen him. Bilbo didn’t know what he would do or say if Balin spotted him.

And yet…Bilbo wanted desperately to hear that voice again.

He slipped the ring on and made his way through the crowd, sitting at a spot near the group of Dwarves. Here, he could hear everything Balin was saying to the enthralled Dwarves. It seemed to be some kind of story. As he continued to listen, he realized that he knew this story.

“So there we were,” Balin said. “Trapped behind the gates of Erebor, burglar gone, Thorin had lost his mind. Those of us on the wall could see the battle was not going well. Dain’s army had been pushed to the gates, Thranduil and Bard’s helpless in Dale. I won’t lie, lads. It seemed hopeless. And then, emerging from the shadows of the mountain, I saw him: a young Dwarf king dressed as a simple warrior. Kíli heard him first and he stood to confront his uncle, to tell him that he could not stand by as people died for them.

“He told the king, ‘It is not in my blood, Thorin.’

“And Thorin looked at him and said, ‘No. It is not. We are sons of Durin… and Durin’s Folk do not flee from a fight.’

“Then he turned to us and said, ‘I have no right to ask this of any of you, but will you follow me one last time?’”

Bilbo knew what happened next. The horn of Erebor had rung. The wall had collapsed under the weight of the statue of kings and Thorin had led the final charge into the battle. And then…Ravenhill and all that had followed.

Balin finished his tale with the death of Azog, mentioning only that Thorin had been grievously injured and had been saved by the skill of the Elves. Bilbo was not mentioned again. He supposed he should be grateful for that. He was afraid to hear what Thorin currently thought of him and what had led him to his words to Bard and Thranduil.

One of the younger Dwarves sighed at the completion of the tale. “I wish I could have been there,” he said dreamily. “To see the king.”

Balin chuckled. “I’ll wager you were too young, laddie.”

The Dwarf grinned ruefully. “Not by much.”

“What happened to the Arkenstone?” one of the others asked.

A guarded look came over Balin’s face. Bilbo figured this was still a sore subject with the older Dwarf. “It was returned to Thorin,” he said slowly, like he wasn’t sure he should be sharing this. “Thorin had it buried, to grace the tombs of those who died at the Battle of Five Armies.”

Bilbo was surprised but pleased to hear this. He hadn’t really thought about what Thorin would do if the Arkenstone were returned to him but he supposed he would have expected it to sit above the throne again. He should have known better of Thorin though. After his near ruination because of his obsession with the Arkenstone, he probably wanted nothing more to do with it.

One of the other Dwarves- a woman, judging by her voice- asked, “What happened to the burglar?”

Bilbo jumped. So did Balin. Neither had anticipated such a question. “What about the burglar?” Balin asked.

“On Ravenhill. You said he went to warn King Thorin. What happened to him after that? Surely King Thorin would have forgiven him.”

Balin bowed his head. “I don’t know what Thorin would have done. No one knows what happened to Bilbo. After the battle, he just… disappeared.”

The serving maid, delivering another round to the table, paused. “Don’t suppose you mean Bilbo Baggins, do ya?” she asked.

Balin looked up at her. “Why, yes,” he said. “I do.”

“He comes here all the time. Fact, he’s here tonight.” She glanced over at Bilbo’s now-empty spot by the fire. “Where’s he gone?” she wondered.

Bilbo stood up, suddenly realizing that he didn’t want to know what Balin would say next. He pushed through the crowd, hoping to make it out the door before Balin could reply. At the door, he stopped to look back one last time. For the briefest of seconds, his eyes made contact with Balin’s, which seemed to be searching the crowd for him. But, of course, Balin couldn’t see him with the ring on and his eyes slid past the invisible Hobbit. Bilbo slipped out the door without anyone noticing.

He had meant to stay in Bree for another few days but decided to go and stay with Drogo and Primula instead. Frodo would be delighted, he supposed, and it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with any Dwarves knocking on his front door. Perhaps it was cowardly but he had been faced with finally knowing what had really happened five years earlier and he couldn’t bear to face the idea that Thorin truly didn’t care for him.

Bilbo ended up staying with Drogo and his family for several months. When he returned to Bag End, no one said anything about strange Dwarves knocking on his front door. It was possible that Balin had indeed been by Bag End and no one chose to say anything but Bilbo knew his neighbors well. They were rather nosy and fond of gossip; he didn’t think that a visit from the Dwarves would have gone unmentioned. No, it seemed more likely that Balin had decided to pass the Shire by. Bilbo didn’t know whether he should be gladdened or saddened by this. He decided to simply feel relieved that he hadn’t had to deal with any sort of confrontation, not that this was any sort of cheerful thought.

Time marched on. Not that the advancing years showed on Bilbo though. He still looked as young as he had the day he’d left Bag End with nary a handkerchief. Bilbo continued to have frequent visitors of Elves and wizards and he continued to travel far and wide, even making it so far as to stay in Mirkwood for a good six months. Thranduil had been delighted to receive him, allowing him to stay in the finest rooms his halls could offer. Bilbo had been so comfortable in the Elf-king’s halls that the only reason he left was because word arrived that a delegation from Erebor would be arriving for trade negotiations, at which point he made his hasty condolences and left that same day.

A little over seven years after returning to the Shire, Bilbo found that he was happy. The pain of losing Thorin had lessened to an occasional dull ache, though it never truly went away. He hadn’t opened Elrond’s book of Khuzdul translations in years. His thoughts of what should have been turned to what might have been. What if he had stayed? What if he had insisted on seeing Thorin? What if Thorin had loved him? But these were distant thoughts and they crossed his mind seldom.

He was happy. He was comfortable. He had just about everything he could possibly want. But Bilbo knew all too well that fortunes could change in an instant.

A sharp, urgent knock startled him out of his reverie. Bilbo stood and made his way to the door, wondering who could possibly be calling without warning him earlier. He opened the door to find an unfamiliar Hobbit. The poor man’s eyes shone bright with tears. He wrung his hat in his hands, his mouth opening several times like he was unsure of what to say.

Finally, he managed, “Mr. Bilbo, sir- it’s- it’s Mr. Drogo- and Miss Primula. There’s been an accident.”


	8. A New Arrival

Bilbo felt Frodo’s small hand slip into his own. He looked down at the fauntling who was watching the funeral proceedings with big eyes. Frodo hadn’t cried, not even once. Bilbo supposed that the child was too young to understand what had happened. Frodo didn’t understand yet that his parents would never return to him. He wondered if anyone had bothered to tell Frodo what would happen to him now that he couldn’t go home.

Only a few days after the drowning, the Thain had gathered together the elders of the Baggins and Brandybuck families. “I suppose you all know why we’re here,” he said gruffly.

“The reading of the will,” Lobelia Sackville-Baggins said imperiously.

Bilbo snorted softly. Drogo and Primula hadn’t had much and he very much doubted that their few belongings would go to anyone other than Frodo. Certainly, they wouldn’t go to Lobelia. Lobelia glared at him and he glared right back.

“No,” the Thain stated, clearly agreeing with Bilbo’s line of thinking. “The will’s been read. Everything is going to Frodo.”

“Frodo,” Bilbo realized. “We’re here to discuss Frodo.”

The Thain nodded at him. “Yes, we need to talk about what we’re going to do with Frodo.”

Bilbo disliked how that was stated, like Frodo was a common object that was proving troublesome. The boy was just that: a child who deserved to be treated well. “Isn’t it in the will?” he asked. “Surely Drogo and Primula knew who they wanted to take care of Frodo?”

Shaking his head, the Thain said quietly, “It’s not. I doubt they knew they would pass so young.” He bowed his head in respect for the young couple, the other Hobbits following suit. After a brief moment of silence, he continued, “Which brings us to our current problem, what to do with Frodo. As I’m sure you know, he’s spent the last few days staying at Brandy Hall. Now traditionally, he would go to live with his closest relatives, meaning he would stay at Brandy Hall. However, he has expressed an interest in going to stay with you, Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s head jerked up. He was rather shocked. He hadn’t realized just how much of an impression he had made on his young cousin.

“Me?” he repeated.

“Yes, you.” The Thain exchanged a brief glance with the Master of Brandy Hall; Bilbo had to wonder if there had been previous discussions on the subject. “This would not normally be a problem were it not for your…lifestyle.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what the Thain meant but he was certainly not going to make it easy for the man. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said calmly.

“You are…” The Thain trailed off, thinking of the right words. “A bachelor and I’m sure you can agree that a bachelor lifestyle is no place for a young child.”

Bilbo cocked his head. He knew perfectly well that the Thain meant that his adventurous lifestyle wasn’t appropriate for a child. After all, Bilbo was not a typical bachelor and the life he led when he was at home would be fine for someone of Frodo’s age and temperament. Obviously, the Thain had a problem with the fact that Bilbo kept running off to visit the elves.

He was tempted to tell the Thain that he would be more than pleased to take Frodo in, if only to see the look on the old Hobbit’s face. But he knew that they were right. He wasn’t prepared to raise a child. He didn’t particularly want a child. He wasn’t ready to give up his adventures and a life spent cavorting around the countryside was no life for a small fauntling. No, it was best if Frodo went to someone else who could give him the steady, peaceful life he deserved.

“I can’t take Frodo in,” he said. Several of the Hobbits threw satisfied glances at each other, like they’d known in advance what he would say. For the briefest moment, he considered changing his mind just to spite them but that wouldn’t be fair to Frodo.

“I’ve made plans to travel to Rivendell at the end of the month,” he continued. “I can’t take Frodo with me.” He’d made no such plans but it was the easiest excuse he could think of. He felt a little guilty about the deception but didn’t particularly want to explain his personal reasons for refusing Frodo’s request. No matter; they all thought him strange anyway. Might as well reaffirm their beliefs.

“Does anyone else want to take guardianship of Frodo?” the Thain asked, turning his gaze to the others in attendance. There was much mumbling and shuffling of feet as each one came up with an excuse as to why they couldn’t adopt young Frodo. Bilbo was appalled. How dare they judge him for being unwilling to take care of Frodo when they themselves wouldn’t either?

“That’s settled then,” the Thain said eventually. “Frodo will remain at Brandy Hall.”

During the ceremony, Bilbo thought back on that conversation as he gazed down at Frodo. The way the poor child was clutching his hand made him wonder if anyone had told him that he wouldn’t be going home with Bilbo. Well, the middle of the ceremony was the wrong time to bring up such a subject. He would need to wait until after the funeral.

The ceremony came to an end. People came up to Frodo to pay their respects. He shrank back into Bilbo until the older Hobbit was practically shielding him from the world. He stroked the child’s hair absentmindedly, trying to soothe him. Slowly, the graveyard emptied until only Bilbo, Frodo, and the Master of Brandy Hall remained.

Bilbo’s eyes flicked up to meet the Master’s, who nodded slowly. The implication was clear. Frodo had not yet been told where he would be living. It would be Bilbo’s job to do so. His lips pursed. He hadn’t counted on this.

He knelt next to the boy. “Frodo,” he said softly. “It’s time to go home.”

Frodo didn’t say anything. The Thain had told Bilbo about this: Frodo had stopped talking after the deaths of his parents. His doctor wasn’t sure if it was the trauma of the whole event or something else. But, according to him, Frodo was not to be pushed to talk. He would when he was ready.

“I know you want to go with me but you can’t,” Bilbo said haltingly. “You’re going to go back to Brandy Hall. You’ll like it there. Your cousins will be there and children your own age.”

He trailed off into silence, as Frodo remained silent, only looking up at him with those big eyes. From the lack of change his expression, Bilbo had to wonder if the fauntling even knew what he was saying. He stood, tugging his hand out of Frodo’s. The Master stepped forward, picking up the boy. As Bilbo began to walk away, Frodo started wailing, finally understanding what was happening. Bilbo’s steps slowed and then came to a halt.

Again, he felt that pang of guilt. How could he think of doing this to the boy? Frodo had just lost his parents and now he was forcing him to lose his uncle too? Well, Bilbo reflected, it wasn’t like he was actually Frodo’s uncle, really just a distant relation, it wasn’t his fault that Frodo had started calling him “Uncle.” He stood there, trying to talk himself into going back to Bag End, but Frodo’s wails pulled at his heartstrings.

He hurried back to the crying boy. “It’s not forever, dear Frodo,” he said, running a hand through Frodo’s black curls. “We can visit, you and I. We’ll see each other again.”

It was only with the thought of that promise that Bilbo was able to pull himself away. Yes, he would see Frodo again. No, it wasn’t like he was truly abandoning him so that he could continue with his own lifestyle, not if he was promising to visit again. The excuse still didn’t rest wholly easily in his heart but it was better than nothing.

He didn’t realize how true that promise would be. Barely a week had passed before Frodo appeared at his door, eager for food and toys. Bilbo had plenty of the first and none of the second but Frodo didn’t seem to really mind the lack of toys. He contented himself by playing in the garden, covering himself in mud. They spent several happy days together before a harried Brandybuck arrived at Bag End, looking for Frodo. The boy had evidently run away.

The following month would continue this pattern. Every few days, Frodo slipped away from his new guardians to make his way to Bag End. He’d be there as long as he could until someone from Brandy Hall came to collect him.

Each time, whoever came to get Frodo would ask Bilbo if he would be so kind as to return Frodo himself. This, Bilbo flatly refused to do. He didn’t see why he needed to be inconvenienced because they couldn’t keep an eye on their ward. Privately, the whole affair amused him and he didn’t see why it needed to end. He liked having the boy around, more than he’d expected honestly. Again, he reconsidered adopting Frodo but still decided against it.

But Frodo’s adventures were becoming too troublesome for his guardians. For the first time, Bilbo was actually encouraged to leave for a few months so they could Frodo settled. So it was that Bilbo’s hastily thought-up trip to Rivendell did indeed take place.

As per usual, he was welcomed to Rivendell warmly. Lord Elrond was always pleased to see him, this time more so than usual.

“My own sons, I am capable of handling,” Elrond said upon Bilbo’s arrival. “However, this new visitor I’m not sure of.”

Bilbo wasn’t left to wonder about the visitor for very long as they turned a corner to see Elrond’s two sons and a familiar blond Elf climbing in through the window of Elrond’s study.

“Prince Legolas!” Bilbo exclaimed.

Legolas turned, a mite too quickly. Elladan, lifting Legolas up, tripped. The two landed in an inglorious heap. Elrohir quickly hid an irate squirrel behind his back, a trick that might have worked better if the squirrel hadn’t been angrily chattering at him.

Bilbo and Elrond exchanged a glance, Bilbo’s amused and Elrond’s exasperated. “Lindir’s taken the worst of it,” Elrond said. Bilbo started to nod but Elladan swept him up into a crushing hug.

“Bilbo!” Elrohir said, laughing. “We haven’t seen you in months.” Surreptitiously, he tossed the squirrel away and then strode forward to embrace Bilbo as well.

“Well,” Bilbo blustered. “I’ve had matters of my own to tend to.”

“Surely nothing is more important than us,” Elladan replied.

Bilbo didn’t say anything to that. His gaze was fixed on Thranduil’s only son, who was watching him curiously. He hadn’t realized how young Legolas was when he had first met him but if he was close in age to Elladan and Elrohir, then Legolas was still a fairly young Elf. No wonder he’d been so swept up in the Silvan captain. He was in one of those phases.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Legolas said, now the picture of Elven royalty. “I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

Bilbo had a suspicion he knew where Legolas thought he’d be and he went to forestall it. “Thorin never lifted my banishment.”

“I know.”

Bilbo’s jaw dropped slightly open. “You…know?”

Legolas nodded. “During my travels, my father kept me informed of Erebor.”

Bilbo looked down. He’d heard that Legolas had left for the Wild Lands after the Battle of the Five Armies. He hadn’t realized that Thranduil had kept track of his son, though now that he thought about it, it made sense.

“I meant that I hadn’t thought you would continue to travel,” Legolas continued.

Bilbo looked back up. He didn’t think that he’d spent so much time with Legolas as to be so transparent. He cocked his head, inviting the prince to explain.

“I’ve learned something of Hobbits from the Rangers. They’re fond of food and drink but mostly of home.”

“I went home,” Bilbo said, smiling a little sadly. “But it wasn’t really home anymore. I missed the adventure.”

“An unusual Hobbit, indeed,” Legolas commented. Bilbo grinned. He’d come to be familiar with the phrase, both in the derogatory way his fellow Hobbits said it and in the admiring way everyone else did.

“That’s me,” he said cheerfully.

Bilbo remained in Rivendell for several months. It took him a little while to warm up to Legolas, as he still remembered the time he’d spent in the caves of Mirkwood, but he soon found the Elven prince to be as engaging and mischievous as Elladan and Elrohir. It was a shame that Legolas had never gotten the chance to really meet Fíli and Kíli. He thought they would have liked each other. Bilbo mentioned that to Legolas exactly once. Legolas only scoffed at him. As it turned out, the only reason Legolas was in Rivendell was because Thorin’s nephews were in Mirkwood, conducting the formation of a new treaty on behalf of Thorin. Legolas had left after one too many veiled threats from Kíli (something about that captain of the guard; Bilbo didn’t really understand it).

Some months in during Bilbo’s visit, Elrond again extended the invitation of making Rivendell his home. Bilbo had to admit that it made a quite a bit of sense. He spent much of his time there. He loved the valley with its rivers and forests. He’d be closer to Elladan and Elrohir, both of whom desperately wanted him to stay. He wouldn’t have to listen to the comments of the other Hobbits. He was tempted to accept Elrond’s offer, oh yes. But then the letter came.

Lindir found him one evening. He held out a scrap of parchment. “For you,” he said. “From the Shire.”

Bilbo took it, more than a little surprised. Who could possibly have sent him this letter? “How did it get here?” he called after the leaving Lindir.

“A group of Dwarves passing through to the Lonely Mountain,” Lindir said, disapproval clear in his voice. Bilbo wondered if they knew anything about the person they were delivering the letter to and if they would report that to Thorin.

He took a closer look at the letter. Sure enough, it was from the Shire. From Hamfast Gamgee actually.

_Mr. Bilbo,_

_How are you? I hope the weather is nice in Rivendell. Are the Elves feeding you enough? Bell wasn’t sure that they were so she’s included some snacks-_

Considering that Bilbo hadn’t been given a package with the letter, he was fairly certain that the Dwarves had eaten the snacks but he didn’t mind. Yes, the Elves were feeding him enough.

_-The weather here in the Shire is great for gardening. We’ve been looking after the garden at Bag End for you. Your marigolds are thriving._

_I’m sorry to interrupt your vacation but you must return at once. It has been nearly six months since Drogo and Primula died and young Mr. Frodo has not had a steady home for more than a month. He has been passed from relative to relative like he were a mathom._

_I know that you don’t feel ready to become a parent but you are Mr. Frodo’s best hope at a good home. He loves and misses you, just as he loves and misses Bag End. Please return at your earliest convenience._

_Sincerely,_

_Hamfast Gamgee_

Bilbo barely read the last words of the letter, he was shaking so hard. What could Hamfast possibly mean that they were passing Frodo around like a mathom? Surely Frodo’s relatives were treating him like the grieving child he was. He read back over the letter. There was no hint as to what Hamfast was referring to. Well, there was nothing else for it. He was going to have to return to the Shire and see what was going on.

He went to Elrond the next morning. “I appreciate your kind offer to let me stay here,” he said. “But I’m afraid I cannot accept it. It seems that I am about to become a father.”

He hadn’t thought that he would ever be able to ruffle Elrond’s calm façade but that sentence managed to do it. The Elf openly gaped at him, a reaction that Bilbo found wholly satisfying. He smiled to himself, thinking that he would need to tell Gandalf about this.

“How…” Elrond stopped, searching for the right words. “How did this happen?” he finally finished.

Bilbo went on to explain about Frodo and the cryptic letter he’d been sent. By the end of his tale, Elrond looked far more relaxed though still a little shocked. To Bilbo’s great surprise, Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas all volunteered to escort him back to the Shire. When he inquired about this escort, they all told him the same thing: “I just want to see you claim Frodo.”

“I’m not claiming anything. Frodo doesn’t need to be claimed. I’m just going to make sure he’s all right.”

“Still.”

“Suit yourself.”

Bilbo spent much of the trip home on his guard. The three young Elves seemed to have nothing better to do than to prank him and, while they were harmless, it wasn’t always fun waking up with grass braided into his hair.

Though three Elves attracted more attention than Bilbo would have liked, they made it back to the Shire unharmed. Bilbo thought that his escort would have left him at the borders of the Shire but they continued with him to Bag End. The first thing Bilbo did was to visit the Gamgees. He wanted an explanation about that letter.

Hamfast didn’t look particularly surprised to see him although he was rather more surprised about the three Elves standing behind Bilbo.

“They’re my guards,” Bilbo said before Hamfast could ask about them. Then he winced, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. Who needed guards in the Shire?

“I’d ask them to tea but I don’t think I’ve got enough room for them inside,” Hamfast said regretfully.

“We’ll wait out here,” Legolas said, graciously waving the stunned Hobbit off.

One of Hamfast’s many children darted out the door. He pulled up short at the sight of the three Elves, his head tilting farther and farther back so he could take them all in. His head couldn’t tilt far enough back though and he toppled over. Elladan neatly caught him before he hit the ground.

“That’s Sam,” Hamfast said, looking nervous at the sight of the Elf handling his child.

“Then perhaps Sam would like to show us around,” Legolas suggested. Before Hamfast could refuse, the awed Sam had nodded. Taking Elladan by the hand, he led them back through the garden and down the lane.

“I heard something about tea,” Bilbo said, turning back to Hamfast. Hamfast nodded slowly and stood aside to allow Bilbo in.

Once they were both seated with a cup of tea and a slice of pound cake, Bilbo said, “Now what’s going on with Frodo?”

“No one knows what to do with him, do they?” Hamfast said. “He won’t talk. He won’t play with the others. If he’s not running away to Bag End, then he’s down by the river like he’s waiting for his mother and father to come home. We’ve had him over as much as we can but we can’t keep him. We’re not family.”

He leaned forward and motioned for Bilbo to move closer. “No one wants to deal with him. After you left, they only had him at Brandy Hall for a week before they were trying to see if someone else could handle him. The new person only had him a few weeks before Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was all up in their business, saying that they were raising him wrong. Mind you, she only kept Frodo a day before she gave him back to Brandy Hall. It’s been like that for months.”

Bilbo was beyond angry. Was no one willing to work with Frodo? The boy needed patience and understanding, not this festering mess. He knew a little of what it was like to be waiting for someone that was never going to come back, though admittedly Thorin hadn’t died. He finally realized that he was the only one who was going to be able to raise Frodo properly.

“Where is he now?” he said, standing.

“Back at Brandy Hall,” Hamfast said. “He was staying with a Took cousin but they took him back yesterday.”

“Right,” Bilbo said, nodding resolutely. “Then I’m going to Brandy Hall.” He marched back out to the garden to find the three Elves and Sam, crowded around a bug that Sam had wanted to show them.

“We’re leaving,” he announced. The Elves fell into step behind him, Elladan asking him what had happened. Bilbo explained it all on the way to Brandy Hall. As he’d expected, the Elves were as shocked as he was at the mistreatment of young Frodo and they fully supported his plan to reclaim him and raise him right, even offering to help when they could. This, Bilbo refused, as he shuddered at the thought of the three mischief-makers raising Frodo.

They reached Brandy Hall after sundown. The excessively large Hobbit hole was lit up from the glows of the fires inside. Bilbo eyed the Elves critically; the entrance to Brandy Hall was so large he doubted they’d even have to stoop to enter. All the better- he wanted a dramatic entrance and crouched Elves was not the way to do it.

Still fueled by righteous anger, he marched up to the door and knocked as loudly as he could. He was reminded briefly of Dwalin knocking on his own door but he cast that from his mind as the door swung open.

“Mr. Bilbo!” the Master said. “This is most unusual. We haven’t prepared for-” He stopped short, catching sight of the Elves behind Bilbo.

Bilbo pushed his way inside, Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas right behind him. “I’m here,” he announced into the sudden silence, “for Frodo Baggins.”

There was a blur and then Bilbo was knocked back by the force of Frodo slamming into him. The fauntling latched himself onto Bilbo’s leg. Bilbo reached down and threaded his hand into Frodo’s curls, steadying himself.

“I’m afraid you can’t do that,” the Master said coldly, edging past the Elves to stand in front of Bilbo. “You gave up claim to Frodo six months ago.”

“As I recall, what I said was that I was planning to travel to Rivendell and couldn’t take Frodo with me,” Bilbo replied. “I’m back and I want to take my cousin home.”

Straightening to his full height, the Master said, “Frodo’s home is here at Brandy Hall, with us.” He crossed his arms in front of him, planting his feet firmly on the earthen floor.

“Is it now?” Bilbo asked, taking a confident step forward. The Master stepped back in reply. “That’s funny. I’d heard that you’ve been trying to pawn him off since I left for my trip.”

The Master’s eyes narrowed. Bilbo smiled ever so slightly. He’d guessed right; they’d been trying to keep this whole thing quiet.

“You can’t have him,” the Master said.

“Why not? You wanted him but then you tried to find someone else to take him. Seems to me that everyone wants him until they’ve actually got him.” There was the smallest of sniffles from Frodo and Bilbo winced. He’d been hoping that Frodo wouldn’t pick up on the idea that no one wanted him. They’d need to talk about that later but now, in the middle of this argument, was not the time.

“Now here I am saying that I want him, that I want him until he’s old enough to have fauntlings of his own. So what’s the harm in letting me take him?” Bilbo stopped as a thought passed through his mind. “Unless, of course, you think I’m going to ruin the family name. Is that it? Mad Baggins takes in orphan, corrupting him to go on adventures and think for himself.” He mock-gasped. “The horror!”

Behind him, Legolas stifled a snicker.

“Or worse yet,” Bilbo continued. “You’re worried I’ll leave my entire fortune to Frodo instead of to the family and you won’t get to see a penny of it. Well, guess what? You won’t get to see a penny of it anyway. I’ll live forever before I let you see any of my fortune. I haven’t forgotten that you tried to steal my mother’s glory box.”

He took a step back, bringing Frodo with him. “So here’s how this is going to work: I’m taking Frodo with me. I’m going to raise him in Bag End, the way I see fit, and there’s nothing you’re going to do to stop me.”

The Master stepped forward, opening his mouth. Bilbo held up a hand to stop him. “But if you really think that Frodo doesn’t want to go with me, then let’s ask him, shall we? Seems like that’s the one thing no one’s bothered to do.”

He knelt next to Frodo. “I’m sorry I left you,” he said softly. “It wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have done it. But I’m here now and I’m going to take you home. Do you still want to go with me?”

Frodo didn’t say anything. A self-satisfied smile spread across the Master’s face. “He won’t answer you,” he said. “He won’t talk to-”

“Yes.”

The Master abruptly went silent. He and Bilbo both turned back to Frodo. The smallest of smiles was spreading across the boy’s face. He gazed at Bilbo with such hope that it nearly floored him with the amount of trust he’d been given.

“What did you say?” Bilbo asked. The Master went to say something else. “Hush, you. Frodo, do you want to go to Bag End with me?”

A beat. Then-

“Yes.”


	9. Life with Frodo

“Thank you,” Bilbo said. “For everything.”

He stood just inside the door to Bag End, an exhausted Frodo curled up in his arms. Night had truly fallen while he had argued with the Master of Brandy Hall but he hadn’t wanted to stay there, choosing instead to head home with Frodo despite the late hour. The Elves had been invaluable in this endeavor, first leading the way with their superior night vision and then helping to carry Frodo when he got too tired to walk.

“The pleasure was ours, truly,” Elladan assured him. He glanced at the sleeping Frodo. “Good luck.”

Bilbo followed Elladan’s gaze to Frodo’s tousled hair. He smiled fondly. He’d been nervous about taking Frodo in but now that the boy was here, he knew that he’d done the right thing.

“I think we’re going to be okay,” he said with conviction.

Legolas laughed softly. “I know you will.”

“We’ll return in three months,” Elladan said. “Give you two time.”

Bilbo nodded. He appreciated their thoughtfulness. He made his goodbyes and then closed the door gently, trying not to waken Frodo. Turning his mind to the problem at hand, he thought about where he could put Frodo. There were several guest bedrooms in his smial. But he thought that Frodo would best like the one with the window that overlooked the Shire.

He made his way to the bedroom, thinking to himself that he would need to put some of his mementos away as they weren’t appropriate to have out with a small child in the house. He got Frodo settled in easily enough although he had no nightclothes that would fit the boy. As he removed Frodo’s shirt, he decided that he would need to go out to purchase new clothes for him. Everything he had owned had been left at Brandy Hall.

Yes, Bilbo thought, he would go into town tomorrow to purchase new clothes and maybe even some toys. Frodo turned over in his sleep, one hand clutching tightly at the blankets. Bilbo smiled sadly. He was glad to have Frodo in Bag End but he hated the circumstances that had brought him there.

For the next hour or so, he picked up the clutter in the hallways. He’d hate for Frodo to trip over the knick-knacks he had collected. He spent a few moments studying Sting hanging over the mantelpiece. He didn’t think that Frodo would be able to climb up there but better safe than sorry. Taking both Sting and Thorin’s mithril coat, he packed them away in a locked trunk under his bed. When Frodo was older, he would take them back out.

With that chore finished, he finally went to bed. It was nice to be back in Bag End, he thought sleepily. As much as he loved his travels and as much as he got tired of the dark mutters that followed him in the Shire, there was nothing like a good night’s sleep in his own bed.

The next morning, Bilbo awoke with a vague sense of disquiet.

This sensation puzzled him; the slivers of golden light peeking through the curtains were bright and joyous and somewhere outside, a nightingale was singing. There was nothing to cause him alarm and yet he was definitely… edgy. However, he couldn’t seem to spot the source of the disquieting feeling and so he went about his normal morning business as usual.

He prepared breakfast for himself (lemon muffins with bacon and scrambled eggs) and was just sitting down to eat when he felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked up and nearly jumped out of his seat.

Frodo. He’d forgotten Frodo.

The boy was watching him with those big eyes. Bilbo stood up and gestured to the plate in front of him. “For you,” he said, turning away to make another plate for himself. After a moment, Frodo sat down and pulled the plate closer to him.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frodo mumbled through a mouthful of egg.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bilbo said automatically. He remembered how he used to get on Fíli and Kíli’s cases about that habit as well and he smiled.

“I thought I’d take you down to Hobbiton today,” he continued. “Fill out the adoption paperwork. Make sure no one can take you away from me. How does that sound?”

Frodo didn’t say anything. He pushed his food around his plate, following the path his fork made with his eyes. Bilbo, preoccupied with the bacon, didn’t notice Frodo’s silence.

Finally, Frodo said, “Do you want me here?”

Bilbo turned sharply to look at Frodo. “Of course I do. What makes you think otherwise?” he asked.

“Last night. You said-” Frodo broke off in a small sob, burying his head in his arms, and Bilbo suddenly understood. His appetite fled as his stomach dropped out from under him. He’d said that no one seemed to want the boy. His heart broke as he watched the despondent Frodo.

He moved around to the other side of the table and drew Frodo in close. “Don’t listen to what I said last night. Listen to what I’m saying now. I do want you and I’m never letting you go back there.”

“But you didn’t come for me first,” Frodo pointed out. He pulled away from Bilbo, frowning. Bilbo noted the puffy eyes and red nose and he felt even worse. It had been such an emotionally charged argument and Bilbo hadn’t even considered what he was saying when he’d said those thoughtless things. He shouldn’t have gone to Rivendell, he thought. He should have stayed for Frodo then.

Bilbo sighed. “I know,” he said quietly. “I was foolish and selfish. I should never have made you go to Brandy Hall. But I’m here now.”

Frodo still didn’t seem entirely convinced, not that Bilbo could blame him. His actions up to this point weren’t exactly convincing. He smiled softly. It seemed that his actions were going to have to speak for themselves. Well, all right then. The first step would be to finalize the adoption.

“Come on,” he said, gently slapping the table. “Finish your breakfast. We’re going into town.” He cleared away his plate, no longer hungry. Frodo finished his slower and then brought his plate over to Bilbo.

“Nope,” Bilbo said. “If you’re going to live here, you have to wash your own dishes.”

“Don’t want to,” Frodo pouted. He stuck his lower lip out and stared up at Bilbo with big eyes.

Unimpressed, Bilbo eyed him. “Too bad.”

Dramatically, Frodo flung himself across the table. “It’s too hard!” he wailed.

“Nonsense. I’ll show you how.”

“Momma wouldn’t have made me,” he said, playing his trump card.

“Well, I’m not your mother,” Bilbo said without thinking.

Frodo’s lip trembled. Tears filled his eyes. Bilbo winced; he’d said the wrong thing. He sat down next to Frodo, holding him close, and let the boy cry. He didn’t think there was anything he could do to make him feel any better.

After a few minutes, Frodo poked his head out from under his arm. He wiped his eyes. Bilbo silently handed him a handkerchief. Noisily, he blew his nose and then handed it back to Bilbo. Bilbo wrinkled his nose but took the handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Frodo nodded. Then, slyly, he looked at Bilbo. “Does this mean I don’t have to do the dishes?” he asked.

Bilbo let out a small chuckle before he could stop himself. Briefly, he thought about telling him that it wouldn’t be a problem, he would do the dishes. But then he thought that if he gave an inch, he’d be giving a mile.

“No you still have to do them,” he told him.

Briefly, Frodo pouted before bouncing off the table and running to the sink. He sang loudly (and off-key) as he worked. Bilbo, busy getting ready to leave, only heard snippets of the song but it sounded like he was singing about breaking all of the dishes as revenge. Bilbo smiled to himself; he hadn’t realized how much Frodo had in common with Fíli and Kíli.

After the dishes, they walked down to Hobbiton together, Frodo clinging tightly to Bilbo’s hand. There, they met with Bilbo’s lawyer and began the long process of filling out the adoption paperwork. Bilbo suspected it wouldn’t have taken so long if the lawyer had just accepted that he did want to adopt Frodo and that Frodo was willingly living with him. He resolved to find himself a new lawyer as soon as possible. He was tired of dealing with this one.

It was on the way back to Bag End that Bilbo began hearing the first murmurs. He wasn’t entirely certain what they were saying as they spoke too quietly for him to hear but, judging by the furious glares following him and Frodo, he had an idea of the subject.

“Frodo,” he said quietly. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go play with Sam.”

Frodo’s eyes lit up at the mention of his best friend. He nodded eagerly. Bilbo waited until they were out of sight of Hobbiton before shooing him on his way. Then he slipped the ring on and crept back into the village.

With him and Frodo gone, or so they thought, the villagers felt perfectly safe continuing their conversations at louder volumes. He’d been partially right. They were discussing him and, to a lesser extent, Frodo. More specifically, they were discussing his decision to come back to raise Frodo. His eyebrows rose as he listened. He hadn’t known how much his fellow Hobbits disliked him. Personally, he didn’t feel too bad about this; he felt that he was meant to live his best life, not bow to the busybodies of the village. But he hated that his past actions were casting a bad light on Frodo.

One group of gossipy ladies talked about how improper it was that he, a bachelor, was raising such a small child. Another group lamented that he had no experience with children and threatened that Frodo was going to run wild and turn out to be a bad sort with Bilbo raising him. Then there was Lobelia, telling anyone who would listen that she planned to take Frodo away the moment Bilbo left for an adventure.

“What a terrible environment to raise a child in!” she proclaimed to anyone who’d listen.

Bilbo reflected that he’d already known that he would have to give up his adventures when he had decided to come home. As for the idea that a bachelor couldn’t raise a child, well that was just ridiculous. There was no reason that he couldn’t raise Frodo just as well as anyone else. They were right about one thing though: he didn’t actually know how to raise a child.

Fortunately, he thought as he left for the Gamgees, he knew someone who did.

“Is Bell around?” he asked the moment Hamfast opened the door.

“She’s out back, watching Sam and Frodo,” Hamfast replied, jerking his head towards the garden. “Something we can help you with?”

“I need her advice,” Bilbo said.

Hamfast chuckled. “Fancy that, Bilbo Baggins asking for advice.”

“Ha ha,” Bilbo said sarcastically. He rolled his eyes as he began to pick his way through the garden. He could hear the peals of laughter from the two boys as they rolled around in the dirt. Bell was seated nearby on a small bench, watching the two intently as she knitted.

“Good morning,” Bell said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” Bilbo replied. He sat next to her. “What are you working on?” he asked, nodding at her knitting project.

“A sweater for Frodo,” she said, fixing her gaze on Bilbo. “Poor boy told me his clothes were left at Brandy Hall.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said slowly, realizing how stupid that might have been. At the time, he’d been focused on getting Frodo out of there, thinking that he would maybe pick up Frodo’s clothes later. Now he knew that he would probably never be invited back to Brandy Hall.

“I was planning to purchase them,” he said.

Bell nodded soothingly. “I’m sure you were. He can wear this tomorrow.”

He groaned. He hadn’t even thought about clothes for Frodo to wear until he could purchase new ones. This parenting thing really was harder than he’d thought it would be.

“Bell, I need your advice,” he admitted.

Bell snorted good-naturedly. “I’ll say you do.”

“How do I take care of Frodo?”

“You feed him, you wash him, you make sure he’s got a roof over his head and clothes on his back. Bilbo, it’s not that difficult.”

“But I’m already doing a bad job. I forgot he was in my house this morning!” he protested.

“Yes and the first time I took Hamson shopping, I forgot him in Hobbiton. You’re going to make mistakes. You just have to learn from them.”

Bilbo groaned, burying his head in his hands. He didn’t like making mistakes. Bell patted his shoulder consolingly.

“I left his toys at Brandy Hall. What do I do about that?”

“You get him new ones.” She smiled at him. “You’re going to do a wonderful job.”

“Not according to everyone else,” he muttered.

Bell’s smile disappeared and she straightened up. “Then everyone else is wrong. If you go into this thinking you can’t do it, then you’ve already lost. You’re going to make an excellent father. You just need to believe in yourself.”

He just needed to believe in himself? Bilbo wasn’t sure that was the advice he needed but it was probably the only decent advice people would offer him. He made his goodbyes and called Frodo over to him. Before he could go, though, Bell stuffed an armful of clothes into his arms and an armful of toys into Frodo’s.

“Sam’s old things,” she explained. “He may be younger than Frodo but he’s about the same size.”

“And the toys?” Bilbo asked.

“Loans.” She winked. “So you don’t have to go back into town yet.”

Over the next few months, Bilbo came to realize that Bell had been right. Raising Frodo was not as difficult as he’d thought it would be. Sure the stares and mutterings were irritating whenever they went into town but Bilbo had years of practice with dealing with those. Frodo did not but he never seemed to notice the others. Worse were the visitors who’d come to Bag End to tell Bilbo about how he was raising Frodo wrong and what he needed to be doing better. Lobelia was the worst of them all as she had a habit of saying cruel things in front of Frodo and making him cry. It was times like that that made Bilbo wish he could take Frodo to Rivendell to raise him there but he always discarded the idea as unfair to Frodo.

For his part, Frodo often bounced from moments of extreme joy to moments of heartbreaking depression. There were many days like that first one where Frodo exuberantly played around and sang as he did his chores but there were just as many where he sobbed in his bed for hours. Bilbo worried that he was perhaps doing something wrong raising him. He raised his concerns to Bell but she just said that Frodo had experienced great loss and, sometimes, the smallest things would remind him of the life he’d lost.

“You were the same way,” she said. “After you came back from your adventures.”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose. He didn’t remember that in the slightest. “I was?” he asked.

Bell nodded. “That’s why,” she said thoughtfully, “I think you’re the best person to raise Frodo. You know what it’s like.”

“I didn’t think I told you what happened on my adventures.”

“You didn’t,” Bell assured him. “But it didn’t take much to guess that you lost someone you cared about.”

Bilbo thought back to those early months after Thorin had banished him, to what he had wished people would have done for him. “So the best thing I can do for Frodo is just to be there for him?” he asked.

“Make him feel loved again, like he’s got a home with you.”

“He does have a home with me.”

Bell smiled gently. “Then your job should be easy, shouldn’t it?”

At first, Bilbo didn’t see much of a change in Frodo but as time went on, he noticed that Frodo did seem happier. He still missed his parents terribly but he was young enough that they were more vague impressions in his mind rather than concrete memories. He would occasionally spend the day crying but it was not as frequent as it used to be. Far more often, Bilbo heard Frodo’s joyous laughs ringing through the smial.

Truthfully, the hardest part about living with Frodo was getting used to him. There were plenty of mornings where he forgot that Frodo was in the smial and so he prepared breakfast for one. There were other times when the boy would run off to spend the day playing with Sam and forget to tell Bilbo where he was going, prompting a frantic search for him. Each time this happened, Bell would just laugh and tell Bilbo that he was becoming more like a father every day.

But despite all the troubles, Bilbo found that he loved living with Frodo and that fatherhood rather suited him. Not that Frodo ever called him “Father.” Frodo had met him as Uncle Bilbo and he would stay Uncle Bilbo. In Frodo, he found not only a willing listener but an active one for all of his stories. Frodo loved hearing about Bilbo’s adventures, particularly the ones about the quest for Erebor, almost as much as Bilbo loved telling them. Bilbo and Frodo would curl up in chairs by the fireplace for hours as Bilbo told the rapt child about his adventures with the dwarves and elves.

Of course, the pair had several adventures of their own. Bilbo never took Frodo to Rivendell but they would travel around the countryside. Frodo liked to pretend that he was off fighting dragons of his own and Bilbo amusedly watched him as the boy stabbed at imaginary monsters with his wooden sword. There was one time, during the annual Market, when they made it as far as Bree. They didn’t buy anything but they sat off to the side and Bilbo told Frodo stories about the sellers, knowing many of them from his previous excursions. At one point, he looked down at Frodo tucked up against his side and he realized that he wouldn’t have traded this new life with Frodo for anything, not even the ability to return to Erebor.

Frodo made him feel needed in a way that he hadn’t felt since the dragon had been defeated. He hadn’t known how lonely he was until he had this young boy who brought life into his quiet existence. So it was that Bilbo came to the realization that, although he wasn’t glad that he’d been forced to leave Erebor, he couldn’t be sorry for the events that happened afterwards for they had led him to Frodo.


	10. As the Years Passed

“Who are you?”

“Why, I’m Gandalf.”

“From Uncle Bilbo’s stories?”

“I suppose. And who are you, my young inquisitive Hobbit?”

“Frodo. What’s ‘quisitive mean?”

“It means that you’re curious.”

“That’s what Uncle Bilbo says too.”

“Are you staying with your Uncle Bilbo?”

Frodo nodded firmly. “He says I’m ‘dopted.”

“Adopted, Frodo. Don’t forget the first syllable,” Bilbo said, rounding the corner. He smiled broadly at Gandalf and greeted the old wizard with a hug. “Hello, Gandalf. Fancy seeing you here.”

“And where else should I be?” Gandalf asked, chuckling gently.

Bilbo shrugged. He threaded a hand into Frodo’s hair, brushing it back from the boy’s face. “I see you’ve met my ward,” he said cheerfully.

Gandalf stopped laughing and peered more closely at the fauntling in front of him. “Your ward?” he asked, glancing back up at Bilbo.

Bilbo nodded. “For about six months now.”

“How did this happen?” Gandalf asked curiosly, looking between the two.

Bilbo’s eyes lost their happy sparkle and his mouth twisted sadly. “Frodo,” he said gravely. “Why don’t you run over to the Gamgees? I’m sure Sam would be excited to see you.” Frodo, eyes lighting at the chance to see his best friend, nodded eagerly and took off.

“Don’t forget to close the gate!” Bilbo yelled after him but it was too late. In his haste, the garden gate was left swinging madly. “He always forgets,” he told Gandalf ruefully.

He took his pipe out of his vest pocket, brushing the lint off. Sitting on the bench overlooking the Shire, he waited for Gandalf to join him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, both smoking their pipes.

“Frodo’s parents- my cousins- Drogo and Primula, died a year ago,” Bilbo admitted finally. “We’d become good friends before their deaths. Frodo wanted to come live with me but I didn’t feel ready for a child so I ran away to Rivendell.” Ashamed of his actions of a year ago, he looked away from Gandalf. For a long moment, he was silent, puffing away on his pipe.

“What brought you back?” Gandalf prompted after he judged enough time had passed.

“Frodo did.” Bilbo smiled to himself at the memory. “He missed his parents terribly, you know. No one quite knew how to handle him and he ended up being passed from family to family. A friend, Hamfast Gamgee actually, wrote to me to ask me to come back. Told me how Frodo needed a proper home. And so I came back, told the Brandybucks that I was going to take Frodo home, and he’s been with me ever since.”

Gandalf nodded silently, noting the fond smile on Bilbo’s face as the Hobbit stared absentmindedly in the direction of the Gamgees.

“I’m glad I left Erebor,” Bilbo said suddenly. Startled, Gandalf turned to him. More resolutely, Bilbo repeated, “I’m glad I left the Lonely Mountain. I needed to be here for Frodo. I can’t imagine what would have happened to him if I hadn’t been banished…if I’d stayed.”

Gandalf didn’t quite know what to say to that. He knew how much Bilbo had loved Thorin, possibly still loved him, and how much it had hurt when he’d been refused entry to the mountain. Over the last several years, he had watched as Bilbo had healed from those past hurts, proud of the way the Hobbit had recovered, and yet he had been concerned about the lack of direction in Bilbo’s life. Now it seemed as though Bilbo had found that direction in raising Frodo. He was partially relieved about this development- he’d been concerned about Bilbo’s mental health over the last few years- and extremely proud. But he wasn’t sure he could share those thoughts with Bilbo as the Hobbit might take it as patronizing.

“Do you enjoy living with Frodo?” he asked instead.

Bilbo pondered his words for a moment. “Yes,” he said eventually. “I do. It’s different than how my life used to be but it was getting to be too quiet anyway. I missed the noise of the Company. You know, Frodo’s as bad as Fíli and Kíli.”

“Is he?” Gandalf said with a small chuckle.

“Yes and he’s only gotten worse since Elladan and Elrohir visited last month. They taught him all sorts of new tricks.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Frodo, running up the path crying about a scraped knee. Gandalf’s keen eyes followed Bilbo as he took care of the small child, washing the injured limb and bandaging it gently, all the while murmuring soothing words and reminding Frodo to be more careful. He would never have thought that fatherhood would have suited his burglar but it did.

Gandalf stayed with the two for some time. Frodo loved having the wizard around, as he was fond of both the fireworks that Gandalf brought with him and the stories that Gandalf told. Being thousands of years old, the wizard had plenty of stories to share about ages gone by but Frodo liked best the ones about Bilbo’s adventures. Of course, Bilbo had told him all of those stories but there was something about hearing them from someone else that made them extra special.

More than that, Gandalf completely doted on the boy. He would fashion small toys from blocks of wood to give to Frodo on a whim. If Frodo asked, he would show him small magic tricks, ones that made Bilbo wonder why Gandalf couldn’t have done that on the Quest for Erebor. More concerning were the times when Gandalf would get the cookies down from the highest shelves because Frodo wanted a snack. Privately, Bilbo worried that Frodo would become spoiled from all the extra attention but he didn’t. He remained as sweet and good-natured as ever. He would often come to Gandalf with injured animals, pleading with the wizard to heal them, and he only ever asked for fireworks when he had friends over. By the time Gandalf left, he and Frodo were fast friends.

Gandalf stood in the doorway, Bilbo propping the door open. He had sent Frodo off to play in his room while he bid the wizard goodbye.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, “for coming. I’ve missed seeing you.”

“And I you,” Gandalf replied with a tip of his hat. He turned to go and then stopped. “Bilbo, when I arrived, you said you were glad you left Erebor.”

Bilbo nodded slowly, remembering the conversation. “I did, yes. What about it?”

“Do you…?” Gandalf hesitated, which Bilbo found odd. He’d only known Gandalf to hesitate once before, when they’d met Beorn. “Do you still miss Thorin?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. He hadn’t been expecting such a question and he wasn’t entirely certain how to answer it. Truth be told, he hadn’t really thought of Thorin since he’d adopted Frodo. He’d been too busy running around after the boy and making sure that he felt cared for to worry about anyone else. But, if he was being honest with himself…

“Yes,” he admitted. “I do. Maybe not as much as I used to.” He cast a fond glance in the direction of Frodo’s room. “But I do still miss him. I’d like to be able to see him again, even just once.” He wanted to be able to clear up some things like what had happened after the battle and, more importantly, how he felt about the King Under the Mountain.

Gandalf eyed him curiously but he said nothing more other than muttering, “A fine Hobbit indeed.”

Since Bilbo didn’t understand that, he chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, he stuck his hand out to shake Gandalf’s. “I hope we’ll see you soon,” he said sincerely.

Gandalf smiled warmly. “I’m sure you will.” Then he was off, down the lane, heading out of sight.

Time passed. Gandalf was indeed a frequent visitor to Bag End, as were Elladan and Elrohir. Visits from Gandalf were always highly anticipated, as he brought stories and news from the rest of the world. The Elven twins, on the other hand, were slightly less welcome because they brought tricks and mischief, although Frodo utterly adored them. Bilbo wouldn’t soon forget the dressing-down he’d received from Bell after the two Elves and Frodo had visited her award-winning garden. Legolas never visited, for which Bilbo could only be grateful. Elladan and Elrohir were trouble enough but he’d heard enough stories from Elrond to know that the blond prince was much worse.

More frequently, the two had visitors from around the Shire. These were much less welcome visitors as they typically were there to tell Bilbo how poorly as he was doing as a parent. Bilbo tried to handle these visitors as politely as he could but he sometimes lost his temper, which of course only gave more fodder to the gossip mill. The worst was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins who continued to be so vitriolic that she still had the ability to make Frodo cry should he be so unfortunate as to open the door.

But for all that the other Hobbits claimed that he was doing a terrible job, Bilbo thought that Frodo was growing into a fine young fauntling. Frodo was kind-hearted and brave, never afraid to stand up for the little fellow. The boy was growing, both in age and in height. He was blossoming into a beautiful boy, full of vitality and opinions. Already, Bilbo watched as his young nephew caught the eye of every little Hobbit girl in the Shire. He could scarcely remember the sad, silent child who had come to him six months after the death of his parents. He knew that Frodo still missed his parents greatly but he had come to accept their loss and was comforted he had his uncle, whom he adored beyond measure.

Frodo was full of questions about the world around him and Bilbo was more than happy to answer them. Typically, these questions dealt with things like why the sky was blue and why acorns grew into oak trees. Occasionally, they dealt with such matters as to why dwarves hated elves and why a dragon had saw fit to take over Erebor. His most frequent question though was about why he didn’t have a mother.

At first, Bilbo didn’t quite know what to say to that. The simple fact of the matter was that Frodo didn’t have a mother because she was dead. Of course, he put it more tactfully to Frodo who simply shook his head.

“No,” the boy insisted. “Why don’t I have a mother with you?”

“Why don’t you have a mother with me…” Bilbo repeated, trying to understand what Frodo meant. “Why don’t I have a wife?”

Frodo nodded eagerly.

“Well,” Bilbo began slowly. “I don’t have a wife because I’m not in love with any Hobbit women.”

“Do you love any Hobbit men?”

Bilbo’s nose twitched. “No, I don’t love any Hobbit men either.”

Frodo looked slightly put out. “Do you love anyone?”

Bilbo had to laugh at that question. “Of course I do. I love you, don’t I?”

Unamused, Frodo glared at his uncle. “That’s not what I meant,” he retorted.

Good humor fading away, Bilbo sighed. Black braids framing sharp angles and ice-blue eyes flitted into his mind. He pushed away the image of Thorin. He was fairly certain that Frodo didn’t want to hear about his doomed love with the King of Erebor.

“Why are you so curious about whether or not I love anyone?” he asked.

Frodo bit his lip, looking down slightly as his toe scuffed against the floor. “Mistress Bell’s happy with Mister Hamfast. And Merry’s mother is happy with his father,” he said, naming another one of his friend’s parents. “I want you to be happy like that with someone.”

Bilbo tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, unexpectedly emotional. Out of all the answers he might have expected, that wasn’t one of them. He scooped Frodo up into his arms and then sat down in his armchair, situating the boy on his lap. He had never told Frodo about his love for Thorin and the events that had brought him back to the Shire but he thought that now might be the time. Even though he hadn’t thought Frodo wanted to hear about any of it, he now wondered if Frodo worried about him.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do love someone the way Bell loves Hamfast.”

Frodo craned his neck to stare at his uncle. “Who? Why doesn’t she live with us?”

“He, Frodo. A long time ago, on my adventures, I fell in love with Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain.”

Frodo’s mouth fell open in almost comical surprise. He hadn’t known that his uncle had fallen in love with a king. But he had to wonder why, if Bilbo and Thorin loved each other, they weren’t with each other now.

“Why isn’t Thorin here?” he asked.

Bilbo poked his side gently, prompting the boy to laugh. “Because he’s a king, silly. He needs to be with his people in Erebor.”

“Then why aren’t you with him?”

The light dimmed in Bilbo’s eyes and Frodo almost felt bad for asking his uncle about it. But he really wanted to know why his uncle was alone. “Because I hurt him very badly,” Bilbo said. “I took something that meant a lot to him because I was afraid it wouldn’t be good for him and so he sent me away.”

“But didn’t he love you?”

Bilbo’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “I thought he did. But I was wrong.”

“Could you go back to see him?”

Bilbo winced. He had often wished over the years that he could go back to see Thorin, even if it was just to apologize for taking the Arkenstone. But- “No, I can’t. I made him very angry and he told me that I couldn’t come back.”

Frodo was quiet for a moment as he looked over at the shelf that held all of Bilbo’s books about his adventures. His eyes settled on the small volume containing the tales about Fíli and Kíli. His uncle had had other friends in the Company besides Thorin. They should have told Thorin that he was wrong.

“What about Bofur and Dwalin and Fíli and Kíli?” he asked. “Why didn’t they say you could stay? Didn’t they know you loved him?”

Bilbo stared off into space, remembering the tension-filled moments atop the ramparts of Erebor. He remembered the way they had all hesitated to throw him over the wall but none of them had done as much as lift a finger to stop Thorin.

“Because they agreed with him,” he said. A great weight settled upon him. He’d never admitted this aloud before although he’d thought it many times. He had accepted, when he’d given the Arkenstone to Bard and Thranduil, that he risked the possibility of losing Thorin’s favor but he had never thought that the others would also turn their backs on him so easily. The pain he’d felt when he’d been turned away from Thorin’s tent rushed back and he closed his eyes against the memory. He could still hear the guard’s words in his mind- “We heard it from Dwalin-” and his heart ached.

“That’s dumb,” Frodo said flatly.

Bilbo opened his eyes to stare at his nephew. There had been others who had tried to convince Bilbo that what had happened was not his fault- Gandalf, Elrond, even Thranduil- but none had been so blunt as Frodo. For the first time, he realized that yes, it was dumb. That day should have gone much differently.

“You’re right,” he told Frodo with a small smile. “It was dumb. Grownups sometimes are.”

“Well you shouldn’t be.” Frodo squirmed off his lap. “I’m hungry.” With that, the boy immediately bounded for the cookie jar. Bilbo leapt up from the chair to stop his nephew- cookies were for after dinner- and the conversation was suddenly over.

Bilbo had a hard time forgetting the conversation though. It weighed heavily on his mind, popping up at inconvenient times. He had thought he’d managed to move past the events at Erebor but he saw now that he’d just shoved it to the back of his mind. He still desperately loved Thorin and he still missed Erebor. What he had said to Gandalf was true; he couldn’t feel upset about his banishment because they had brought him to Frodo and yet he sometimes found himself wishing that he could have talked to Thorin after the king had awoken. It still seemed impossible that Thorin had been willing to grant an audience to Thranduil but not Bilbo. But the past was the past and he could do nothing about it now.

The years continued to pass. Frodo was now growing like a weed and Bilbo had the unsettling feeling that the boy would have no problem surpassing his height. The boy was remarkably intelligent, spending more and more time indoors to read the books Bilbo had in his library. He showed extraordinary awareness of the world outside the Shire though Bilbo had to wonder how much of that was because wizards and Elves were frequent visitors to their smial. More than that, he was uncommonly kind and gentle. There was a reason Hobbits were called gentlefolk and yet Bilbo thought that Frodo could have given any of them a run for their money.

Slowly, the number of condescending visitors dwindled until Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was the only one who regularly visited to tell Bilbo that he was a terrible parent. Her words were still hateful, sometimes hurting Frodo far more than Bilbo wanted but there was nothing he could do about her visits. He had stopped being polite to her years earlier and it hadn’t done a thing. She still showed up unannounced to spew her vile words.

But for all that she had tried to spread her hatred to the rest of the Shire, the other Hobbits were slowly coming to the realization that Bilbo was doing a remarkable job raising Frodo. Just the other day, Lily Cotton had stopped him in Hobbiton to comment on how polite Frodo had been when asking her for cookies. Bilbo felt irrationally proud every time someone told him how wonderful Frodo was. He would never have admitted it aloud but after so much time being judged and hated for his adventures, it was somewhat nice to have the respect of the Shire again.

Some six years after Bilbo had arrived at Brandy Hall to claim Frodo, he sat comfortably in his armchair. Outside, a summer thunderstorm blew through the Shire, rattling the windows and shaking the leaves off the trees. But it was cozy inside. There was a fire crackling cheerfully in the fireplace, Bilbo was puffing merrily on his pipe, and Frodo was playing with a set of wooden soldiers on the floor.

This was a very special set of wooden soldiers, having come all the way from Dale where Gandalf had picked them up for Frodo on his last trip through the city. While Frodo had shouted gleefully when he saw them, Bilbo had held one of them limply in his hand, unable to say anything. He knew the craftsmanship on those simple wooden toys.

“Did Bifur sell them to you in person?” he had finally managed to ask quietly.

“Yes,” Gandalf said just as softly.

There had been a lump in his throat as he tried to lightheartedly comment, “I’m surprised Bifur was willing to sell them to you.”

He hadn’t liked the pitying look Gandalf had given him. “A wizard is too important to banish forever,” Gandalf had said simply. Bilbo had blinked away the tears in his eyes at the implication that he hadn’t been important enough to forgive.

At the time, he had wanted to take the toys and throw them into the fire. But, as he watched Frodo now, he was glad that he had kept them. He was glad that Frodo had the chance to play with toys that a member of the Company had made, even if said member hadn’t known who the toys would be for.

Lulled to relaxation by the rain lashing the windows, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Slowly, he drifted off into a light doze, only startling a little when someone knocked on the door.

“Frodo, get the door,” he drawled lazily.

Eager as ever for visitors, Frodo jumped up and headed for the door. From his spot by the fire, Bilbo listened as Frodo said brightly, “Hello Gandalf!”

“Hello, my dear Frodo. Terrible weather we’re having, isn’t it?” came the wizard’s reply. “Are you going to invite us in?”

Distantly, Bilbo registered the word “us” but he assumed that Elladan and Elrohir had decided to visit as well.

“I would,” Frodo said regretfully. “But Uncle Bilbo says I can’t let strangers in the house.”

Pragmatic as ever, Gandalf said, “You could introduce yourself. Then you wouldn’t be strangers.”

There was a brief pause, as Frodo seemed to digest the words. Bilbo tried to understand what was going on but his tired and befuddled brain wouldn’t grasp Gandalf’s words. Well, he knew that Gandalf wouldn’t bring someone terrible to his door and so he settled deeper into his armchair, dozing back off.

“I guess you’re right!” Frodo said, once again cheerful. “I’m Frodo.”

“Balin, at your service.”

Bilbo’s eyes shot open.


	11. Meanwhile In Erebor

_Fourteen Years Ago…_

 

“I here present unto you King Thorin, your undoubted king: wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”

Balin’s voice rang out clearly through the throne room. With a roar, the assembled Dwarves- not just the Dwarves of the Iron Hills but many of Thorin’s own people who had arrived over the last four months- answered in affirmation, “Mahal bless King Thorin!” The great horn of Erebor, blown by Bombur, sounded throughout the hall.

Thorin, seated on his throne, struggled to smile. He had everything he could want. Before him stood Balin, holding the newly reforged crown of Erebor. To his right were Fíli and Kíli as the princes of the Lonely Mountain and his heirs. He could feel the comforting coolness of the stone throne at his back. The hall was filled with Dwarves from across Middle Earth, here to witness the coronation of their king.

He should have been happy.

But every time he glanced to the left, he saw an empty space. A space where Bilbo should have been. A space where he wanted Bilbo to be. But Bilbo was long gone, having been forced away by his hand four months earlier. The pain of that separation hadn’t lessened in the slightest and the Company was still hesitant to mention the Hobbit’s name in Thorin’s presence, lest they cause their king to fall apart.

Balin noticed as Thorin’s gaze fell to the side. He took a step closer. “Thorin?” he asked, quietly so that the crowd could not hear him.

With an effort, Thorin forced his gaze from the empty space to meet Balin’s worried gaze. He nodded slightly. “I am ready,” he whispered.

Balin stepped back again. Raising his voice, he asked Thorin, “Sir, is your Majesty willing to take the Oath?”

Thorin lifted his chin. “I am willing,” he said, calm and sure.

“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the Peoples of Erebor and Khazad-dûm, Nogrod, Belegost, Orocarni, and the Iron Hills and of your Possessions and other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs?”

“I solemnly promise so to do.”

“Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?”

“I will.”

“Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the laws of the Valar and the true profession of Mahal? Will you to the utmost of your power maintain in Erebor the laws established by King Durin I? Will you preserve unto the lords of the Dwarf kingdoms, and to the people there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?”

“All this I promise to do.”

Thorin rose from the throne. Across the pathway, he could see the Book of Mahal, with the signatures of the oaths of the kings before him. Ori, he knew, had copied his oath into the Book that morning. He crossed to the altar on which the Book lay and knelt before it.

“The things which I have here before promised, I will perform, and keep,” he promised. He rose and turned to Ori, standing beside the altar, who offered him a quill. He signed the oath with the words “Thorin Oakenshield” hesitating over the epithet. He’d debated for several days whether to include his title. There had never been a king before him who had signed with a title but he had been the King in Exile, known only as Thorin Oakenshield. It didn’t seem right to exclude part of his name.

As he was turning, his gaze fell on the previous oath, signed by his grandfather Thrór. Thrór’s was the last oath to be signed before Thorin had returned to the mountain. His father had never had the chance to become king before he had disappeared. He had vowed before to avenge his father and grandfather but now, as he returned to the throne, he vowed to make Erebor greater than it had once been. He would make his ancestors proud to call him their descendent.

He turned to make his way back to the throne. His eyes followed the sharp angles of the newly rebuilt chair, landing on the place where the Arkenstone had once rested. After the battle, Bard had come to him, wishing to return it to its rightful owners. Thorin had, however, shuddered to see it, remembering how close he had come to ruin and devastation over the stone. He had taken it but had chosen to have it buried deep in the mountain in the tombs of those who had fallen during the battle. There, he didn’t have to think about it and feel its constant tug.

What had surprised him most about the whole affair was how his Company had applauded his decision to abandon the Arkenstone. He had expected they would support him but he hadn’t truly thought they would understand his reasoning and yet, each one had found him individually to tell him how much they appreciated the memorial.

As Thorin sat, Dwalin came forward carrying the ceremonial Sword of Kings. Jewel-encrusted and heavy, the sword would never be used in battle but would be worn at all formal occasions of state. He knelt before Thorin, presenting the sword to him hilt first.

“Hear our prayers, O Mahal,” Balin intoned, “we beseech you and so direct and support your servant, King Thorin, that he may not bear the Sword in vain; but may use it for the terror and punishment of evildoers and for the protection and encouragement of those that do well.”

Thorin stood and took the sword, offering his long-time friend a small smile. He held it above his head so that the Dwarven assembly could look upon it as Balin continued, “Receive this kingly Sword and with it, do justice. Restore the things that are gone to decay, maintain the things that are restored, punish and reform what is amiss, and confirm what is in good order.”

His gaze traveled up to the sword he held above his head. The last time he’d held something like this, he had been driven mad with dragon sickness. For an instant, he was not in the throne room but on the battlements of the front gate. For an instant, he was not holding the Sword of Kings but a small Hobbit. For an instant, he could feel the pull of the Arkenstone upon his madness. He shuddered, nearly dropping the sword in his revulsion. Balin eyed him worriedly again and Thorin gave him the smallest of headshakes. This was neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters. Wordlessly, Balin nodded his understanding and cleared his throat as though to continue with the ceremony.

Hastily, Thorin turned to Fíli and gave him the sword. Fíli held it reverently, careful not to let the sword drop. Thorin sat again, his eyes falling on the crown. This, at last, was the moment he had prepared for during those long years in exile. This was what had given him hope, that he might one day return to Erebor to claim his throne and restore his people.

Balin beamed proudly as he said, “O Mahal, the Crown of your servant: we beseech you to bless this crown and so sanctify your servant Thorin, upon whose head this day we place it for a sign of royal majesty, that he may be filled by your grace with all kingly virtues.”

Reverently, he placed the crown upon Thorin’s head. Thorin stood so that all those in the hall could look upon him. At the sight, the crowd began to shout praises and acclamations for the King Under the Mountain. Again, Bombur blew the great horn.

The noise slowly died down and Balin continued, “Mahal crown you with a crown of glory. Be strong and of good courage. Stand firm, and hold fast from henceforth the seat and state of royal and imperial dignity, which is this day delivered unto you. We establish your throne that it may stand fast for evermore.”

Balin knelt before the throne and recited, “I, Balin, will be faithful and true to our Sovereign Lord, King of this Realm, and unto your heirs and successors according to law.” In like manner, Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, Gloin, Ori, Nori, Dori, and Dain paid homage to their king. As Dain backed away, Balin came forward once more and Thorin stood to be presented to the Dwarves of Erebor.

“Long live Thorin Oakenshield, Lord of the Silver Fountains, King Under the Mountain!” Balin proclaimed.

The Dwarves took up the cry and shouts of “Long live King Thorin!” filled the hall. Thorin proceeded forward out of the hall, followed by the Company.

As the new king, Thorin was expected to be at the evening’s banquet. He didn’t particularly want to be there. The pain of losing Bilbo was still too fresh for him to want to do anything other than hide himself away and grieve. But he knew how long the Dwarves had been waiting for this. As much as he wanted to, he knew that he couldn’t lock himself in his room.

Surprisingly, he found himself loosening up slightly as the evening wore on. No one would have called him verbose, but he did talk with Dain about his plans for Erebor over the next few years. Dain and Balin interjected with suggestions of dwarves for his council they thought could help him achieve his vision, and provided suggestions of their own. Thorin wished that Dís could have been by his side as well, providing the advice and counsel he had come accustomed to in Ered Luin, and that Dain would not be leaving so soon, but he understood that they both had their own kingdoms to rule, so he took advantage of the advice offered.

More than anything, he wished that Bilbo could have been there as his advisor, or even more preferably, as his consort, but his own actions had pushed his burglar away. It was a foolish wish and he needed to stop thinking about it lest he drive himself mad.

The next morning, Thorin met with his assembled council for the first time. In addition to the members of the Company who’d been given positions in his council- Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, Balin, Bofur, Glóin, Ori, and Nori- there were an additional six other Dwarves sitting at the table. Balin introduced the newest members to the council, Thorin making a note to remember each one’s name, and then they launched into discussions about the plans for Erebor.

The newest Dwarves were of the opinion that Erebor needed to be reconstructed immediately. Thorin, having already promised to assist in the rebuilding of Dale, waved that suggestion away.

“We can look to the mountain after Dale stands as proud as it once did,” he said.

“The Dwarves who won’t be aiding in the reconstruction,” Glóin said. “Will they be beginning mining operations?”

Balin shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend it, laddie. We don’t know what damage the dragon brought to the lower halls.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “I would agree. I do not want to risk Dwarven lives more than necessary.”

“Your Majesty,” one of Dain’s suggestions, a stout black-haired Dwarf named Flói, piped up. “You’re concerned about Erebor’s structural security but you send all of our Dwarves to help the Men.”

“Uncle,” Fíli said. “There’s no reason we can’t leave a small company here to begin work on the mountain and send the rest to Dale.”

Thorin looked softly at his nephew. Fíli was growing up, almost faster than Thorin could believe it. Fíli looked back at Thorin, a hopeful look in his eyes, praying that he’d made a decent suggestion.

“Very well,” Thorin said finally. “Master Flói, I will leave it in your capable hands to select the Dwarves to begin repairing Erebor. I expect to see the list tomorrow morning.” Flói inclined his head as Thorin turned back to Balin.

Balin shuffled through his notes and then located the report he was looking for. “The kitchens have reported that we’re running low on the stores sent from Mirkwood. I’ve spoken with Bard. They’ll be able to grow crops on the land around Dale but it will take time, more than we’ve got right now.”

Thorin turned to Nudaed, a Dwarf from the Iron Hills. “Master Nudaed, could we send for stores from the Iron Hills?”

Nudaed grimaced. Looking regretful, he shook his head. “I’m afraid we can’t. The Iron Hills is supplied through trade. There’s little that could be spared to be sent here.”

Thorin titled his head back, staring at the stone above them. He sighed heavily. There was one obvious answer but he hated to use it. His mouth twisted angrily. As much as he didn’t want to ask Thranduil for more aid, he was King Under the Mountain now. He had to think about what was best for his people and right now, that meant asking that pointy-eared Elf for help.

He groaned. “Fíli, Bofur,” he said. The two exchanged confused glances and then leaned closer to him. “Tomorrow, you ride for Mirkwood.”

There was an uproar of outrage from the Dwarves, all consisting of the same complaint: that they would be asking Thranduil of all people for aid. Thorin let the complaints continue for the briefest of moments before holding his hand up. Immediately, the noise died.

“Enough,” he said wearily. “Tomorrow, you ride for Mirkwood. Negotiate for aid for as long as it takes for the crops to grow. See if you can take one of Bard’s ambassadors with you. I’m sure they’ll need assistance as well.”

Fíli and Bofur both nodded their agreement. Thorin motioned for Balin to continue. The discussions continued late into the afternoon, ranging from repair work to entreaties from various Dwarves to the reports of unrest from the Dwarves uneager to accept Thorin as king.

This last report was more concerning than the others and Thorin decided to address that as soon as he could. He turned to Nori, newly promoted from ex-thief to spymaster.

“Master Nori,” he said grimly. “I’d like the names of those leading the conspiracy against me.”

“And once I have them?” Nori asked.

Thorin thought hard about that question. He didn’t want to give them a public execution. Beyond the fact that the Dwarves had done nothing illegal yet, a public execution would turn them into martyrs. On the other hand, he couldn’t just let them roam free. That would only encourage their plans.

“Give the list to Dwalin,” he said.

From behind him, Dwalin nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promised.

“Too right you will,” Balin muttered. “After all we went through to put Thorin on the throne, I’d like to keep him there.”

Thorin cast an amused glance at the older Dwarf. “Is there anything else to discuss?” he asked after a moment.

Balin flicked through his notes and then shook his head.

“Excellent,” Thorin said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He waited until only the members of the Company waited in the room before dropping his head into his hands and groaning loudly.

“Uncle?” Kíli asked hesitantly. “Is everything okay?”

“I fought a dragon for these people,” Thorin complained. “And how do they repay me? By conspiring against me.”

“I’ll remind you,” Balin said, “that not everyone thought we should reclaim Erebor.”

Thorin groaned louder. “They were happy enough to return once the dragon was vanquished.”

“True enough,” Balin said over the sound of Thorin’s groans. He thought that it was time to usher in a different subject. “You’ll be pleased to hear the raven returned.”

Thorin’s head snapped up, a curl of fear settling low in his stomach. “From the Shire?” he asked. “What did it say?”

This was the first time any of the rest of the Company had heard about a raven being sent to the Shire. They looked curiously between Balin and Thorin, wondering what this was all about.

“Bilbo arrived in the Shire about two weeks ago. He left Gandalf and a pony at the border of the Shire and continued on foot. Apparently, he didn’t have much to carry other than a small chest of gold,” Balin said.

“That weasel!” Glóin shouted. “Stealing our long-term deposit!”

Confused, Thorin stared at his new Master of the Treasury. “Your what?” he asked.

Glóin shifted uneasily as did Bofur, to Thorin’s surprise. “Well…in the troll hoard, there was a lot of gold. Too much to just leave there. Anyone could have taken it. So we buried a chest.” He pointed at Dwalin. “He can tell you.”

Thorin shifted to look at Dwalin who nodded. Thorin chuckled a bit at the thought but he waved for Balin to continue.

“The raven said he looked well, happy even.”

“That’s good,” Thorin murmured, though he looked down at the table. His mouth twisted in disappointment. He’d partially been hoping that Bilbo would have looked upset at returning to the Shire, that Bilbo might not have wanted to return as much as he had wanted Bilbo not to leave. He was glad to hear that Bilbo had made it back to the Shire safely though. The Hobbit should have made it back three months earlier. He’d been worried that something had befallen Bilbo on the road.

Well that, he supposed, was the last he’d ever hear of Bilbo Baggins. A sharp pain sliced through his heart. He didn’t want to think about the fact that he would never see his burglar again. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the Company filing out of the room or the glances trading among them.

A hand landed on his shoulder. He stood sharply, hand falling to his sword. But it was only Balin, looking worriedly at him. Dwalin stood behind him, waiting to follow Thorin out.

“Thorin?” Balin asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” he lied. Bilbo was gone, he told himself firmly. It was time to move on.

Balin didn’t look entirely convinced but he let the matter rest. “Will you be dining with the Company tonight?” he asked instead.

Over the months of traveling, the Company had grown used to dining together. The tradition had continued after they’d settled into Erebor. Thorin knew that their dinners together would lessen now that he had been crowned, from the demands placed both on his time and his personage, but he figured that he could spare at least tonight.

He felt he was at least owed that.

Throughout the next few months, the Company’s dinners lessened in frequency until they were only able to eat together about once a month. Other times, they dined separately in the Great Hall. That wasn’t to say that Thorin never saw the Company members. His nephews he saw frequently, housed as they were in the royal family’s wing. He saw Dwalin and Balin just as often, Dwalin because he was Thorin’s personal bodyguard and Balin because he was the royal advisor. As Glóin, Nori, and Bofur sat on his council, he saw them at every council meeting. Bombur, Óin, Ori, and Dori all had positions within the royal household and so Thorin saw them only when there was something important to discuss. The one Thorin saw the least was Bifur who had refused all positions Thorin had offered, instead choosing to take up his past profession as a toymaker.

The infrequency with which he saw his Company was upsetting. For all that he had appeared unapproachable and grumpy, Thorin had enjoyed the time he had spent with the Dwarves and Bilbo on the road. For the first time, he had felt freed from his constraints as the ruler of his people, free to laugh at his nephews’ antics and to sing along with Bofur’s bawdy tunes. It had been both wonderful and terrifying how much he had enjoyed such freedom.

On the other hand, perhaps it was good that he saw the Company less frequently because, with little else to focus on unless it were his mistreatment of Bilbo, it increased the efficiency of the rebuilding efforts. By the end of spring, Dale had been rebuilt and, with it, Erebor’s relations with the city of Men. It appeared that Bard had appreciated Thorin’s ability to keep his latest promises for all that he had distrusted the Dwarf King when they’d first met.

The relations with Mirkwood were harder to repair. Elves and Dwarves had always naturally disliked each other, had done so for many ages now. If Lord Elrond, calm and soothing as he was, had ruled Mirkwood, Thorin thought that it would have been easier to get along with the Woodland Realm. But it was Thranduil who sat on the throne and, for all that Thorin tried, he just couldn’t see past the Elven King’s actions when Smaug had come. In return, Thranduil couldn’t seem to get past Thorin’s harsh words when they’d been captured traveling through Mirkwood. Fortunately, Bofur, finding the Elves inadvertently hilarious, was perfectly willing to serve as ambassador to the Elves and so Thorin rarely had to deal with the arrogant Elven king.

With Dale rebuilt, Thorin turned the efforts of his Dwarves solely to the mountain. The Dwarves worked hard to restore Erebor to its former glory, often skipping meals and working late into the night. Thorin did what he could to make sure that none of his people suffered from their work but the Dwarves insisted that their beloved kingdom be restored as soon as possible. With each passing day, Erebor resembled more of the glorious city it had once been.

Three years after the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain, Erebor had been fully repaired and restored. The city was packed with Dwarves from all over Middle Earth, all having come to rebuild their lives in Erebor. Thorin welcomed them all, turning away none.

There were, of course, dissenters who complained about Thorin’s rule. Many were convinced that a king who had already fallen prey to dragon sickness once could do so again. Others thought that Dain would make a better ruler and some, though not many, wanted to see Lady Dís on the throne of Erebor. The last conspiracy never failed to make Thorin laugh as he knew perfectly well that Dís, his loyal-to-a-fault sister, would never be willing to take the throne from him. Thorin dealt with each uprising as they occurred, squashing many before they could even become a problem. But, for the most part, Thorin was beloved by the Dwarves of Erebor.

Another year passed. Erebor came to thrive under Thorin’s rule. He had gained new titles in addition to Oakenshield and the King Under the Mountain, titles such as the Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Golden Rivers, and the King of Carven Stone- most of which he’d earned from the old prophecies. Many regarded him as the most generous king the Dwarves had ever crowned. This always made Thorin wince; he knew he would never forget the devastation his so-called “generosity” had wrought after he had reclaimed the Lonely Mountain.

Dale too had been restored to its former glory. With Bard as its king, it had regained its place as the center of trade that side of the Misty Mountains. Over the years, Thorin had come to respect Bard as both leader and king. He often consulted Bard for advice. Beyond the fact that Bard’s advice was invaluable when it came to matters of the surrounding area, Bard, he knew, would never simply tell him what he wanted to hear, as evidenced by the months he had spent trying to convince Thorin to chase after Bilbo. While Thorin would never count Thranduil as a friend, he was only too proud to call Bard one.

“Thorin,” Dwalin called from the door to Thorin’s study. “King Bard is here. He wants to speak with you.”

Thorin waved for Dwalin to let the man in. He glanced up to see Bard in the doorway, looking slightly nervous. This was an unusual look for Bard and Thorin turned fully to give him his full attention.

“I came to give you this,” Bard said, holding up a rolled bit of parchment. Thorin stood to take it from him. The parchment was heavy and lined with gold. Curiously, Thorin lifted his eyes to Bard, silently questioning it.

“Just read it,” Bard said, clearly exasperated.

Thorin snorted softly but slid a letter opener under the bit of wax holding the sheath closed. His eyes skimmed the page quickly, mouth falling further open with each word he read.

“You’re getting married?” he asked finally, excitement thrumming through him. Bard grinned as he nodded. Thorin hardly knew what to say other than, “It seems congratulations are in order!” He crossed to his desk, pulling out the bottle of wine and two goblets he kept stashed in a drawer. He thrust one at Bard and sipped from his slowly.

“Why haven’t I heard anything about this before?” he asked, thinking to himself that a king’s courtship was cause for gossip across both kingdoms.

Bard grimaced sheepishly. “We tried to keep it quiet, didn’t really want anyone commenting on it. Maura’s a very private person.”

“…Maura…” he said thoughtfully as he reread the wedding invitation, tapping the letter on his chin. “I know that name.”

“When you first came to Laketown,” Bard reminded him.

Her face flashed into his mind and Thorin grunted in understanding. “She helped hide us in the marketplace. When we fought with the guards.”

“Mmhmm,” Bard commented. “She fought with me in the Battle of Five Armies, helped guard my children. She’s been my closest advisor since then. One day, I looked at her-”

“-and you just knew,” Thorin finished.

“I didn’t know when I came to love her but it seemed right.”

Thorin smiled bitterly into his goblet. It sounded so familiar, being exactly how he had realized that he was in love with Bilbo. He had been languishing in the dungeons of Mirkwood, listening to the complaints of the Company. He’d nearly lost hope that they would ever make it out in time to find the hidden door. He had hoped desperately that Bilbo was still out there but they had lost him with the spiders. He had started to think that their burglar was dead.

“We’re never gonna reach the mountain are we?” Ori had asked.

And then Bilbo had appeared from thin air, holding a set of keys. “Not stuck in here, you’re not,” he’d said with that crooked grin and Thorin had known then that he was lost. Doomed to see that smile every night in his dreams. But if he was doomed, then it was the best kind.

And Thorin had lost him.

A month later, at the wedding, Thorin paid his respects to Bard and Maura, watching wistfully at the way they smiled at each other. He was pleased for his friend to have found happiness after the death of his wife. But he wished that Bilbo could have been there to share their joy.

He threw himself into his work following the wedding, trying to shake the melancholy that had fallen over him. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion, sleeping little and rising early. It wasn’t until he fell ill that he finally stopped working and, even then, he relapsed twice by trying to rise before he was able.

“You cannot keep doing this to yourself,” Balin told him while he rested after the second relapse.

“Doing what?” Thorin asked mulishly. He glared at his advisor like it would somehow make the older Dwarf leave. He should have known better; Balin could be just as stubborn as he.

“You’re going to kill yourself.”

“I just want Erebor to thrive.”

“It is. But it won’t continue to do so if you make yourself sick every time you’re reminded of Bilbo.”

Thorin flinched. He rolled over so that he wouldn’t have to look at Balin or acknowledge his words. Balin sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

“If you miss him so much,” Balin said. “Why don’t you go after him?”

Thorin laughed hollowly. When Balin didn’t reply, he rolled back over to stare at him. “You can’t be serious,” he stated.

“I am. You could ask him to come back.”

“You want me to travel all the way to the Shire just to ask Bilbo to return to Erebor after I banished him?”

Balin shrugged. “I rather think it would be a good idea. But it is, ultimately, Your Majesty’s decision,” he said, the sarcastic words ringing in Thorin’s ears.

That was the problem. It was his decision and he wanted desperately to go to Bilbo. But he knew perfectly well that Bilbo wouldn’t want to come back. He wouldn’t- couldn’t- face the pain and humiliation of begging Bilbo to return and receiving a no in return. And he knew that Bilbo would say no. After the way Thorin had treated him, how could he not?

Moreover, he knew how much Bilbo loved the Shire, how much he was happy there. On the quest for Erebor, they had all heard about how much Bilbo loved his happy and peaceful life in the rolling green hills of the Shire. Thorin couldn’t bring himself to take Bilbo away from his home, not again.

“No,” he said flatly. “I am King of Erebor and I will not lower myself to beg a burglar to come back.”

Balin’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “Very well, Your Majesty,” he said. Thorin shifted uneasily at the mocking tone in Balin’s voice. “I wish you a speedy recovery.”

Balin didn’t bring up the subject again and Thorin had thought that he had heard the last of it. The months sped by and their argument faded to the back of his mind. He still missed Bilbo greatly but he couldn’t bear to face the rejection that he knew he would hear if he traveled west to the Shire.

But then Balin left on a diplomatic mission to the Blue Mountains. Thorin knew perfectly well that Balin would make a trip to the Shire to see Bilbo. He didn’t bother trying to forbid him; Balin would have just ignored him anyway. Every time he thought of his advisor on that trip though, his heart beat just a little faster at the thought of a small Hobbit possibly returning with the Dwarves. If he had the Royal Consort’s rooms next to his prepared, well, it was just the smallest amount of hope in his heart.

When Balin returned, Thorin met him personally at the gate. He searched the crowd of returning Dwarves, hoping to see Bilbo amidst them, but his search was in vain. Balin shook his head silently the moment he saw Thorin. Thorin stumbled away from the crowd, Balin following quickly.

“Did you see him?” Thorin asked, the moment they were in the privacy of his study.

Balin inclined is head. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. Thorin frowned, confused. “I was in Bree on our way back and I saw him across the room. I didn’t think he had seen me so I started telling a story. I know he heard me but I lost sight of him and when I looked next, he was gone.”

Thorin buried his head in his hands. Surely this confirmed his thoughts. Bilbo didn’t love him. Bilbo didn’t want to return to Erebor. Bilbo was happy to be alone in the Shire.

“Did you go to Bag End?” he asked.

“No. I didn’t see the point,” Balin said simply. “He heard me. If he wasn’t there any longer, it was because he didn’t want to see me.”

It was like he’d lost Bilbo all over again. Balin had been so close but nothing had come of it. For a brief instant, he wondered if things would have been different if he had indeed been there. Then he thought that his head must have been full of wool for him to be thinking such foolish thoughts.

“I miss him too,” Balin said softly. He rested a comforting hand on Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin’s hand came up to cover Balin’s.

“Thank you,” he said.

Thorin thought occasionally of throwing himself back into his work, the way he had after the wedding, but he knew that Balin was right. The Dwarves didn’t deserve a king who couldn’t hold himself together. Instead, he thrust all thoughts of Bilbo to the back of his mind. It wasn’t difficult to ignore all mentions of the Hobbit. With Balin’s information about how Bilbo had avoided him, the rest of the Company became reluctant to discuss the Hobbit as well. As the years dragged on, it became so uncommon to hear Bilbo’s name spoken that it felt as though he had never been a part of the Company.

Once again, Thorin thought that it was the last he would ever hear of Bilbo. No one knew to look for him and it wasn’t so uncommon to hear of Hobbits in Bree that the merchant Dwarves mentioned such a Hobbit.

With each passing day, the pain of losing Bilbo lessened until it had become a dull ache. Thorin knew that he would never love another the way he had loved Bilbo but he no longer felt overwhelmed by the thought of never seeing his burglar again. Still, he hoped Bilbo was happy in the Shire. He hoped that Bilbo had found a way to move on with his life.

“Your Majesty, we come with a request,” a voice said.

Shaken out of his reverie, Thorin focused on the small group of Dwarves in front of him. “What is your request, Master…?” he trailed off, realizing that he hadn’t heard the name of their leader.

Helpfully, Fíli leaned over and whispered, “Náli, Uncle.”

Thorin nodded gratefully at his nephew. “Master Náli,” he finished.

Náli bowed his head respectfully. “We wish to work in the mines of Erebor,” he said.

This wasn’t an unusual request and Thorin stroked his beard thoughtfully. Erebor had nearly more miners than the mountain could handle. Yet he didn’t want to turn the Dwarves away.

“Do you have experience with mining?” he asked instead.

“Not much,” Náli admitted. “We’ve spent a good many years as merchants, traveling between the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills.”

“You don’t want to remain merchants?” Thorin said, wondering what skills merchants would bring to the mines.

Náli shook his head. “We have heard of the wonders of the mines of Erebor and thought to see them for ourselves.”

Thorin narrowed his eyes. It was the same request as many of the Dwarves currently working in the mines but it never failed to make him hesitant to grant their request. He leaned forward, studying them closely, looking for the signs of gold sickness. However, they didn’t seem overly greedy, merely questioning.

“Very well,” he said, waving a hand at Ori. As Ori moved closer, he continued, “Send them to Borin in the mines.”

As Ori scribbled out a brief missive, he regarded the small group again. “How was your journey?” he asked politely. He wasn’t particularly interested in the answer but he’d learned over the years that asking such questions inspired loyalty.

Náli hesitated. He looked back at the group, seeming to ask them if he should mention whatever was on his mind. They nodded and he turned to Thorin. “It was…strange,” he said.

Thorin sat forward. “Strange?” he asked. “How?”

“We were in Bree for the night and this Halfling comes up to us and asks if we’re traveling to Erebor. How odd is that? A Halfling even knowing about Erebor?”

At Thorin’s side, Fíli stirred with interest. Thorin couldn’t blame him. He too was intrigued by Náli’s story and he couldn’t help but wonder if Bilbo was planning to return to Erebor- to him.

“Who was this Halfling?” Thorin asked roughly, voice thick with the beginnings of hope.

Náli shrugged. “Don’t know. He never gave us his name. But we told him that we were planning to come to Erebor and then he asked if we were going to travel through Rivendell on our way. Well, of course, we wanted nothing to do with Rivendell and those blasted Elves-”

Thorin nodded approvingly. He expected nothing less of his people.

“-and when we told him no, he asked if we could make a trip there anyway if we didn’t mind because he had a letter that needed to reach a friend there.”

Thorin gripped the armrests on the throne. “A Halfling friend?” he asked urgently.

Náli chuckled, seemingly at the memory of the meeting. “It certainly wasn’t an Elven name,” he said. “Gamli, you don’t remember his name, do you?”

Gamli stepped forward out of the group, face slack with awe at the chance to address his king. He hurriedly bowed to Thorin who waved him on. “I think it was Boggins,” he said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Baggins?” Kíli suggested sharply.

Gamli paused, thinking over Kíli’s suggestion, and then nodded. Thorin gasped, a sentiment echoed by the other Company members in the hall. He sank back into the throne. Bilbo had been in Rivendell. He’d suspected that Bilbo had continued his adventures; Thranduil had made many pointed comments suggesting as such. He wondered though what had taken Bilbo to Rivendell for so long that one of his neighbors had ventured out of the Shire to find him.

“Your Majesty?” Náli said. “Do you know of this Halfling?”

Thorin was silent, still thinking of Bilbo. It was Fíli who said, “Master Baggins was a friend of ours.”

Ori gently poked Thorin’s shoulder with the scroll he’d finished. “The orders for Master Borin,” he said quietly. Thorin signed the scroll and then nodded for Ori to pass it on to Náli. The group was quietly ushered out of the throne room.

There were several other requests that Thorin was forced to sit through before he could retire to his room but he paid attention to none of them. He couldn’t stop dwelling on Náli’s words. Bilbo Baggins had been in Rivendell long enough for someone to go looking for him. What had he been doing there? Had he decided to leave the Shire, to settle in the Hidden Valley? What would have taken him from his beloved armchair and books?

Not for the first time, he was tempted to leave Erebor in the hands of Balin or Dain and travel west to the Shire- or maybe only to Rivendell if Náli’s words were any indication of where Bilbo had made his home. But, no, he couldn’t simply leave even though he wanted to. His words to Balin were still true: he was the king and, as the king, he couldn’t just abandon his duties to chase after one wayward Hobbit.

The months passed and Thorin still thought of what had taken Bilbo from the Shire. Balin sometimes made comments suggesting that Thorin travel to visit Bilbo. Erebor had settled into a time of peace and prosperity and he knew that, if he wanted, there wouldn’t be a better time for such a vacation. But something held him back. Perhaps it was the doubts that Bilbo had ever loved him or perhaps it was the fear that Bilbo had found himself a lovely young Hobbit to spend his days with. It might have even been the embarrassment of having to rescind his harsh words. Whatever it was, Thorin remained in Erebor rather than traveling to the Shire.

“Uncle, I come with a request,” Kíli said respectfully.

Thorin studied the dark head in front of him. He was surprised that Kíli had chosen to beseech him in this manner, publically in front of the court. Usually, his nephew asked him for favors privately where he could express the pain of any rejection.

“What is your request, Prince Kíli?” he replied formally. Kíli paused before replying and Thorin had the sudden feeling that he wasn’t going to like this request.

“I wish to travel north to meet with the rangers,” Kíli said.

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up. He was right. He didn’t like this request, not in the slightest. He knew what- who- waited for Kíli in the north. At their latest meeting, Thranduil had admitted that he had not forgiven the transgressions of Tauriel, the exiled captain. Thorin wasn’t fond of his nephew’s infatuation with Tauriel but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Besides, after the debacle with Bilbo, one of them deserved to be happy at least.

“Just the rangers?” he asked gruffly.

Kíli grinned crookedly. He knew perfectly well that if Thorin hadn’t already told him no, then he was almost guaranteed a positive reply. “No, not just the rangers,” he said. “I’ve been sending letters to Tauriel and I wish to visit her.”

“Love letters,” Fíli muttered from Thorin’s side. Both uncle and nephew glanced at Fíli.

“They are!” he protested. “Sappy, ridiculous things. His poems don’t even rhyme.”

Kíli scowled at his brother but he didn’t refute the claim. “Very well,” he sighed. “Yes, they’re love letters. Now can I visit her or not?”

“No,” Thorin said, shaking his head. “I cannot spare both you and your brother for such a trip.”

Both Kíli and Fíli looked at him askance. “You can’t possibly think I want to visit Tauriel too?” Fíli exclaimed as Kíli said, “Fíli’s not coming with me.”

Fíli whipped his head around to stare at Kíli. “You didn’t even ask me!” he practically shouted.

Confused, Thorin held up a placating hand. Both boys fell silent. “You’re travelling alone, without your brother?” he asked Kíli. Kíli had never done anything like this without Fíli.

Kíli hesitated and then nodded firmly. “I know you can’t let both of us leave, not without another heir. Besides, Fí wouldn’t have much fun anyway.”

Fíli shrugged, clearly agreeing with that statement. But he didn’t seem quite ready to concede the point. “We always travel together, Kí,” he said softly.

Kíli shifted uncomfortably. Thorin’s eyes narrowed at the slight movement. “Kíli, are you sure you want to do this?” Kíli nodded eagerly, no longer unsure of himself though Thorin watched closely for signs of hesitation. “Then I will grant your request.”

A broad smile spread across Kíli’s face and Thorin held up a finger. “But you still have to take a guard with you.”

Thorin thought Kíli’s face would split in two from the way his smile stretched across his face. Kíli bounded forward to throw his arms around his surprised uncle. “Thank you,” he breathed. Slowly, Thorin returned Kíli’s hug, feeling his nephew’s arms tighten in response.

After a moment, Kíli stood back. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised. His gaze shifted to Fíli, who was openly gaping at Thorin, and he stood taller. He smiled reassuringly at his brother and then left, muttering a packing list under his breath.

“Uncle,” Fíli protested, clearly still in disbelief. “You can’t really be thinking of letting him go.”

“I’m not thinking it,” Thorin said. “I’ve already let him.”

“But- but he could be killed.” Fíli’s eyes widened fearfully at the very thought. Thorin felt a small stirring of guilt for granting Kíli’s request. But it wasn’t as though either of them were boys anymore.

“Your brother is a strong warrior,” Thorin said, clapping a hand on Fíli’s shoulder. “He’ll be able to handle himself.”

Fíli only glared at him before striding out of the room after Kíli.

The next morning, Kíli was gone before the sun rose, taking with him only a single guard and one of the ravens of Erebor. Fíli and Thorin had both risen early enough to see him off but they were the only ones to do so.

As Kíli rode off into the distance, Thorin noticed that Fíli looked more than a little lost. “He’ll be alright,” he told Fíli gently.

“He’ll be alright,” Fíli repeated, murmuring the words to himself like a mantra.

Over the next several months, Thorin made sure to keep Fíli busy to distract him from worrying about Kíli too much. Not that Fíli really needed to worry. Kíli sent weekly letters to Fíli about how he was doing and what he’d been up to. Sometimes, the letters consisted of nothing more than an interesting plant he’d found or the latest prank he’d played on his guard but each new letter seemed to reassure Fíli that his younger brother was doing okay.

Six months after Kíli had left for the north, Fíli barged into Thorin’s study, holding Kíli’s latest letter. “Uncle, you’ve got to hear this,” he said, laughing so hard he almost couldn’t choke the words out.

Thorin exchanged exasperated glances with Dwalin and Balin but waved for his nephew to continue. As Fíli sat down, Thorin turned back to the report he was reading sure that Fíli was just going to tell him about one of Kíli’s pranks.

“Dear Fíli,” Fíli began. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

Thorin’s eyes shot up from the report. Dwalin shushed him though. “Go on, lad,” he said.

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” Fíli said again. “I came north so I could be with Tauriel and I have been. She’s wonderful and brave and kind. She’s everything I could want from a lover and that’s just it, I think. I don’t think I’m in love with her.”

Thorin’s jaw dropped as Balin gasped. Dwalin chuckled and then leaned forward, his chuckle turning into a full-throated laugh.

“I’m hoping it’s just that we haven’t seen each other in so long,” Fíli continued. “But absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder and, well, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have left the mountain. I’m going to stay here though and hope that my feelings will soon return. By the way, that pointy-eared prince is here. He says he’s just visiting. I think he’s just lying. He’s clearly suspicious of me and wants me gone so he can have Tauriel to himself. Well, I’m not leaving, whether or not I’m in love with Tauriel. I refuse to let him win.”

Fíli looked up from the letter to see Dwalin rolling on the floor laughing and a broad grin stretching across Thorin’s face. Even Balin was smiling at the news. He folded the letter away into a pocket and asked, “What do you think?”

“I knew it wouldn’t last,” Thorin commented, rolling his eyes.

Balin smacked him upside the head. “You knew no such thing. You were terrified your nephew was going to pine for an Elf for the rest of his days.”

“Elves and Dwarves aren’t meant to be together,” Thorin insisted stubbornly.

It seemed that Thorin’s words would hold true. As the months passed, they continued to receive word from Kíli that his love for Tauriel wasn’t returning. She was beautiful, Kíli admitted, but no more beautiful than any other Elf. On the other hand, Kíli complained constantly about the lingering presence of Legolas. Fíli complained about the fact that Kíli complained more about Legolas than he shared stories about his adventures.

Balin, in particular, seemed to find Legolas’ presence intriguing but he never said anything about it.

Then came the most dreaded letter of them all.

Once again, Fíli barged into Thorin’s study, waving another letter. His face was pale and he looked horrified. Thorin rose from his chair and Dwalin’s hand dropped to his axe.

“Is Kíli injured?” Thorin asked urgently, grasping Fíli’s shoulders.

“What?” Fíli asked, dazed. He shook himself out of his reverie. “Kíli’s fine. It’s just-” He bit his lip and held out the letter. “Here, read it.”

Thorin was afraid to. Balin was the one who took the letter. He settled his spectacles in front of his eyes and peered down at the scrawled words.

“Dear Fíli,” he said. “Now I know I’ve made a mistake.” He glanced up at Fíli but the prince just motioned for him to keep reading. “I came north to find Tauriel so we could be together only to find that I no longer loved her. Even so, Legolas has remained, seeming to think that I still had feelings for his captain- or so I thought. I was wrong. He has admitted to me that, at first, he stayed because he wanted to keep an eye on me. Now though, it seems that he has fallen in love with me and, worse yet, I with him. Fíli, this is horrible. I could see Uncle forgiving me for falling in love with an Elf but not this one. This is Thranduil’s only son for Mahal’s sake. I don’t know what to do-”

Thorin cut him off. “Legolas?” he asked, completely deadpan. Surely Fíli and Kíli were having a laugh at his expense. “Kíli has fallen in love with Legolas?”

Fíli nodded, eyeing him carefully. He seemed to think that Thorin would rage against such a match. Thorin couldn’t blame him. A few years ago, he probably would have. But he knew how terrible it was to be separated from his love and he didn’t wish that on anyone. Even if Kíli had gone and fallen in love with another Elf. Not just another Elf. Thranduil’s son.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Then, standing, he said, “I have to see Thranduil.”

The next day he rode for the Woodland Realm, accompanied by Fili, Dwalin, Bofur, and a host of guards, which Dwalin had insisted upon.

He strode confidently into Thranduil’s throne room and spied the Elven king lounging on his throne. “Hail King Thranduil,” he greeted loudly.

Thranduil sat up straighter. “Hail King Thorin,” he returned. He glanced at Bofur as though to ask what this whole affair was about. Bofur merely shrugged. Thorin hadn’t told him what the spontaneous meeting was for.

“What brings you to my halls?” Thranduil asked after a quiet moment.

“Are you in contact with your son?” Thorin said, answering with a question of his own.

A glimmer of understanding shone in Thranduil’s eyes. “Kíli,” he stated.

“Kíli,” Thorin agreed.

Thranduil sighed. “Yes, he has told me of his…infatuation.” The last word, he spat out like it was something distasteful.

Truthfully, Thorin couldn’t disagree with him. The thought of tying his line to Thranduil’s was awful to think of and yet… He had never been able to deny Kíli anything. He reminded him too much of Frerin.

Aloud, he said, “Kíli has told me he returns Legolas’ affections.”

Gasps sounded from his guards and from Bofur. One of Thranduil’s eyebrows arched gracefully. “This is news to me,” he said, only the slightest tone of surprise showing that he was genuinely shocked. “I thought he was chasing after that traitor, Tauriel.”

“As did I,” Thorin admitted. “We both thought wrong.” He spread his hands wide. “So what do we do?”

Thranduil laughed harshly. “I would not see my son wed a lowly Silvan Elf, let alone one of Durin’s Folk. I have only to snap my fingers and Legolas will return. He’ll grow out of his feelings.”

Thorin thought otherwise. He’d had the chance to read the rest of Kíli’s letter, had seen how his nephew talked about the Elven prince. If Legolas’ letters to his father were even close to how Kíli had spoken, he doubted that the two would ever be separated. Thranduil’s eyes narrowed the longer Thorin remained silent.

“You doubt me,” he said.

Thorin nodded. “I don’t think forbidding the two to see each other would do anything other than convince them their love is good.”

“I will make Legolas see that he’s wrong,” Thranduil snapped.

Inclining his head, Thorin said, “But I won’t make Kíli see that. I won’t even try.”

Thranduil reared back like he’d been slapped. “I would have thought that you, of all people, would hate this match.”

“I don’t like it,” Thorin said agreeably. “But I don’t see a way out of it that will leave me in Kíli’s good graces.”

“What then do you recommend?” Thranduil hissed. “Surely you didn’t come here without some idea.”

Thorin considered the throne Thranduil was draped across. “I rather thought we might give them a kingdom,” he said.

He’d never thought that he could have astounded Thranduil but that seemed to have managed it. For a brief instant, the Elf King openly gaped at him, half-rising from his throne, before seeming to remember that wasn’t becoming of a king. He snapped his jaw shut.

“A kingdom?” he repeated, utter disbelief etched across his face. “You would allow them to wed?”

“They’re in the middle of the Wilds,” Thorin said. “They’d wed whether we allowed them to or not. There’s nothing we could do to stop them. At the very least, we could get ahead of this.”

Thranduil eyed him like he was a snake prepared to bite. It was a novel look for Thorin to see and he quite thought he liked it.

“There are woods outside of Osgiliath,” Thranduil said finally. “Abandoned. They could settle there.”

Thorin winced. He didn’t want to see Kíli so close to Mordor, even with Sauron gone and defeated. He considered other places where the two could live happily but tossed each idea aside. On the dais above him, he could see Thranduil murmuring to himself as he did the same thing.

“What about Moria?” Fíli suddenly said.

Both Thorin and Thranduil turned to him, surprised. “That’s a Dwarven kingdom,” Thranduil pointed out.

“Isn’t Lorien nearby?” Fíli countered.

“The White Lady of Lorien already rules there,” Thranduil said. “Surely you wouldn’t have me take over the kingdom of my kin.”

“I merely meant that Legolas wouldn’t be trapped underground,” Fíli said coldly.

“Moria is overrun with goblins,” Thorin argued. He shuddered at the thought of the last time he had been to Moria. He’d lost much there, too much. He wouldn’t wish that on Kíli.

“But they’re leaderless,” Fíli said. “Azog the Defiler is dead. We could take back Moria, the way we took back Erebor.” His eyes shone with the vision he saw. He looked eagerly between Thorin and Thranduil, urging them to see it his way.

Thorin stroked his beard thoughtfully. It had always rankled that they had been unable to take back Moria and Fíli was right. Moria would be perfect for an Elf and a Dwarf to settle down together. There was only one other small problem.

“It wouldn’t bother you that Kíli has his own kingdom?” he asked.

Fíli grinned. “Uncle, don’t take this the wrong way, but I doubt you’re likely to have children. I’ll have my own kingdom too eventually.”

Thorin turned back to Thranduil. “What do you think?” he asked.

Thranduil sighed heavily. “It appears I have been outmaneuvered. I will write to Legolas tonight.”

“As I will write to Kíli,” Thorin said.

Thorin turned to go but- “Wait!” Thranduil commanded. Slowly, Thorin turned back to the Elf. “I understand that Moria has been overrun. I will promise the aid of the Elves to retake it.”

Thorin was about ninety-five percent positive that Thranduil’s words were an empty promise but he accepted the help anyway. He’d learned long ago not to rely on Thranduil and he would continue to plan as though the Elven king wouldn’t be there.

With the promise of retaking Moria, Thorin returned to Erebor. As he’d told Thranduil, he wrote to Kíli, urging him to come home. A month later, Kíli returned to Erebor with his guard and his raven- and with Legolas. At first, Thorin was wary to allow the Elven prince inside the mountain but one meeting with the two lovers convinced him otherwise. He saw how Kíli looked at Legolas like he was the sun, the moon, and the stars and how Legolas looked at Kíli like he was the most precious of gems. He’d used to look at Bilbo like that and he knew that their love was true.

But more importantly, he saw the wooden bead woven into one of Legolas’ braids. He knew that style of braid- a braid of intent- just as he knew that style of bead- a bead of love. This, more than anything, convinced him that Kíli and Legolas truly were in love. Not even Tauriel had been deserving of a bead.

With Kíli home, Fíli perked back up. The two threw themselves into planning the campaign for Moria. This time, Thorin knew they would need as much help as they could get to retake the mines and so he didn’t keep this quest a secret. Daily, more Dwarves poured into Erebor, planning to aid in the battle for the mines. True to his word, Thranduil even sent his Minister of War to assist in the planning along with another promise to send Elven warriors to fight alongside them.

Surprisingly, the planning was coming along remarkably easily. Thorin hadn’t thought that the elves could have helped with the strategy at all but he had underestimated the millennia of experience they had. At every turn, they pointed out problems that he had overlooked, facts that he had missed. Before long, he was- well, glad was the wrong word- grateful, perhaps, for their help.

Eventually, there was nothing left to plan. Thorin announced that night that three days hence, they would march for Moria. He was leaving Balin in charge of the mountain. Balin had tried desperately to convince Thorin not to march with the armies but Thorin was having none of it. He was going to take back Moria for his grandfather and his brother. He had tried to force Fíli to stay as regent but Fíli had laughed him off, refusing to stay behind while his brother fought for the mines.

“I will be there,” he’d said stubbornly and that was the end of that conversation. This was now the second time he was leading his nephews into an unwinnable battle. He worried their luck was going to run out.

Dís was going to kill him.

As it was, though, Thorin had planned for everything he could plan for. He didn’t see how anyone could be more prepared than his army. But he hadn’t counted on the will of a wizard.

“Thorin Oakenshield!”

The title rolled through the throne room like thunder. Thorin glanced up from where he had been listening to the requests of one of the citizens of Erebor. His hand fell to his sword before he realized who was stalking towards him.

He’d been wondering when Gandalf would return to Erebor.

Never mind that the wizard had been banished the same way Bilbo had been. They had all known that Gandalf would have shown up whenever he wanted. Now, it seemed that he wanted to.

“Gandalf,” he said flatly. Just because he’d known Gandalf would return didn’t mean he had to be excited about it. “Aren’t you supposed to be banished?”

Gandalf waved his words away like smoke. “You’re making a mistake,” he said heavily, words laden with doom.

“I’ve been told that before and it always seems to be wrong,” Thorin replied.

Gandalf bristled with the insult. “You must listen to me. You must not march on Moria,” he insisted.

Thorin scoffed. “Go away, wizard, and spread your fear-mongering words elsewhere.”

Darkness gathered around Gandalf and the mountain rumbled as the wizard seemed to double in size. Thorin’s mouth twisted. This had to be important. Usually, it took longer for Gandalf to pull authority like that.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf growled. “Do not take me for some petty magician. I’m not trying to hurt you.” The darkness vanished and he shrank back down. “I’m trying to save you.”

With everyone’s attention on him now, Gandalf continued, “You cannot march on Moria. There is evil there, a balrog of Morgoth walks those halls.”

Stunned silence rang throughout the hall. Thorin’s gaze fell on Legolas, who had turned paler than moonlight. The Elf breathed shallowly, eyes full of terror. Thorin had never known Legolas to be afraid of anything and this, more than anything, made him consider Gandalf’s words.

“Truly, Mithrandir?” Legolas whispered. “A balrog?”

“You’re familiar?” Thorin asked. He had heard the tales of such creatures but he’d always thought that they were merely fairytales.

Legolas nodded wordlessly. “They are the nightmares that plague Elven dreams,” he murmured, words managing to carry through the now silent hall. “I would not fight a balrog if I had a thousand Elves at my command.”

Kíli took Legolas’ hand in his, running a soothing thumb over the back of his hand. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “Gandalf will have a plan.”

Gandalf laughed harshly. “A plan?” he repeated. “My plan is to leave it alone. I am not prepared to fight such evil.”

Something else that Thorin had never thought to hear- that Gandalf thought he wasn’t ready for something. In all the years that he’d known the wizard, Gandalf had never admitted that he couldn’t do something. That careless arrogance had always bothered Thorin, not least because it was an arrogance he recognized in himself.

“Very well,” he said before he could think more on it. In surprise, all eyes turned to him. “If we are not ready to face the balrog, then we are not ready. We will wait to retake Moria.”

Gandalf opened his mouth as though to argue but then realized what Thorin had said. “Really?” he asked, seemingly shocked that Thorin hadn’t argued with him.

Thorin laughed. “Really,” he said dryly. “I am not so foolish that I can’t ignore good council when I hear it.”

“Could have fooled me,” Gandalf muttered.

Thorin pretended not to hear him. He turned to Fíli. “Spread the word throughout Erebor. We will not march on Moria until we are prepared to face the balrog.” He turned next to Bofur. “Ride for Mirkwood. Thranduil must be informed.” Lastly, he turned to Kíli and Legolas. “I’m sorry but it appears that your kingdom is not ready for you yet.”

Kíli hastily smothered a startled laugh. “Thank you, Uncle,” he said instead. “I don’t think I could sleep at night knowing that I had a balrog for a citizen.”

“Wait!”

Thorin turned to face the owner of the hasty yell, his advisor Nudaed. “Yes?” he asked simply, wondering what could possibly be wrong. Surely he was making a good decision.

“We can’t just abandon Moria like this!” Nudaed exclaimed. He peered at Thorin, as though he were wondering if his ruler had gone touched in the head. “Balrog or no, Moria is the home of the Dwarves and we must take it back!”

Thorin looked to the crowd of Dwarves behind him, many of whom seemed to be nodding. He wondered how many others out there would agree with Nudaed’s statement. Even so, he shook his head.

“We cannot. We are not ready to face such a creature and I will not risk Dwarven lives on an enemy we cannot beat,” he said.

“What about the dragon?” Nudaed asked grimly, crossing his arms.

Truthfully, Thorin had never held much hope that they could have defeated the dragon with only thirteen Dwarves but that had never been the plan, merely an unfortunate side effect of the original plan: Bilbo stealing the Arkenstone from under Smaug’s nose. He knew perfectly well though that this wasn’t something he could admit to.

“Smaug was mere flesh and bone,” he said instead, thinking of the legends of old. “A balrog is something different. Only a wizard could face a balrog and our wizard does not feel ready.”

Nudead didn’t look convinced and Thorin sighed. “I will not so readily give up retaking Moria,” he reassured his advisor. “I don’t mean to never take back the mines, just not now.”

Finally, the hard look in Nudaed’s eyes softened and he nodded. “Very well, my king,” he said softly. Thorin watched him closely, thinking that perhaps this was just a ruse, but Nudaed did indeed seem to agree with Thorin’s words.

Balin cleared his throat. Thorin slowly turned from Nudaed and looked at him, wondering what could be wrong now. Balin’s head jerked toward Gandalf. Inwardly, Thorin groaned, knowing what Balin wanted from him. Well, it wasn’t like Balin was wrong. Gandalf had indeed done them a great favor and he deserved to be rewarded.

“Gandalf,” he said gravely. “Thank you for your services to Erebor. Your banishment is lifted. You will always be welcome in Erebor.”


	12. A Proposal

“Your Majesty, we need to talk.”

Those were never good words. The last time he’d heard those words, they’d still been planning the campaign for Moria over six months earlier. Thorin glanced up. Balin stood in the door, framed by the torchlight from the corridor behind him. His brow furrowed. The last time he’d seen Balin so nervous was, well, when they’d faced down a dragon. He started to stand but Balin waved him back into his seat.

“Trust me, you’ll want to be sitting for this,” Balin said.

Thorin frowned. “What’s going on?” he asked, worried.

Balin fidgeted, his hands twisting the papers in his hands. Now, Thorin did stand. He ushered Balin into one of the chairs next to the fireplace. Moving to the door, he motioned Dwalin closer. “Send Dori to the storerooms,” he said lowly. “Have him bring back the ale- one of the old ones from before the dragon. I think we’re going to need it.”

Uncharacteristically, Dwalin looked almost as worried as his brother. Now Thorin was extremely concerned. It wasn’t like Dwalin to look so worried.

“Dwalin, what’s going on?” he asked quietly, fear growing with every passing second.

Dwalin just shook his head. “Let Balin tell you.” He paused, looking like he wanted to say more but then he just tossed his head again. “I’ll send Dori in.”

Thorin turned back to Balin. The older Dwarf opened his mouth but Thorin held up a hand to forestall him. “Dori will be here soon. Can it wait?” he asked.

Looking relieved, though at what Thorin couldn’t imagine, Balin nodded quickly. They sat in silence, Balin still fidgeting with the papers in his hands, Thorin turning back to his letter to Dís. She’d written him a few days earlier, asking about her son’s relationship with an Elf. She was furious that it had taken so long for anyone to tell her about the whole affair and, as her wrath was a formidable thing, Thorin had thought it best to write her back as quickly as possible. He hadn’t realized that Kíli had put off telling his mother about his relationship but now that he thought about it, he could see why. Dís was just as wary of Elves as he had been. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant prospect.

There was a hesitant knock on the door. Thorin and Balin both looked up to see Dori poking his head in, looking as small as he could make himself. “Your Majesty ordered the ale,” Dori hesitantly announced, clearly fearful about whatever would have required such a request.

Thorin waved him in, saying gently, “Thank you Dori.” As soon as the cask had been brought in, he ushered Dori back out. He poured two generous servings and handed one to Balin.

As he sat down, he asked, “Now what is so wrong that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow’s meeting to tell me?”

Balin sighed deeply. “It’s about Moria,” he said reluctantly. “People aren’t…well, they’re not happy with your decision to abandon the mines.”

Thorin stared at him. Out of all the things Balin could have been worried about, he hadn’t thought that this would be it. “I didn’t decide to abandon the mines,” he clarified. “We’re just waiting until Gandalf is ready for such a battle.”

When Balin didn’t say anything further, Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Balin, that was nearly six months ago. Why are you coming to me about this now?” he asked.

“Because there is talk of a rebellion,” Balin said quietly, looking into his cup, “to oust you from the throne.”

His jaw falling open, Thorin gaped at him. “A rebellion?” he stammered. “Why?”

“They’re not happy,” Balin said, gaze miserable as he met Thorin’s worried stare. “That Gandalf has taken so long to prepare. That you listened to an Elf and a wizard over your own Dwarves. That you have left Moria in the hands of a balrog.”

“And who do they back as my supplanter?” Thorin spat out, furious that his people had so little trust in him.

“Nudaed,” Balin admitted.

Of course it was Nudaed. Thorin remembered that he’d been the most vocal of his dissenters when he’d decided to leave Moria to the balrog for a while longer. “I want him killed,” he growled.

Balin held up a hand to forestall him. “Now wait just a minute,” he said sharply. “Nudaed wants nothing to do with their schemes. He’s already come to me to ask if he can resign from your council. He wants to return to the Iron Hills in peace.”

“Good,” Thorin muttered. “Send Kíli with him. I want to make sure nothing happens on the way there.”

Balin’s eyes narrowed but he nodded. “Do you truly think it wise to send Kíli?” he asked. “I don’t believe that Nudaed is planning anything but if he is…”

Thorin waved a careless hand. “Kíli can handle himself. I trust him to keep an eye on Nudaed more than anyone else.”

Balin bowed his head. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he agreed.

“About this rebellion…” Thorin began.

Balin said quickly, “I do not think we should risk civil war.” Thorin nodded absently, trying to think of ways that he could regain his people’s favor. “The council and I have been talking and we had a few ideas. Most of them we’ve discarded but there’s one we think will work. Thorin, we think it’s time you consider marriage.”

Thorin’s head snapped up. “No,” he said, horrified at the thought.

“Yes,” Balin said gently. “There are examples across history of rulers marrying to secure favor. It’s the best way to make yourself likeable to your people, to humanize you, particularly if you wed someone the people love. I know it’s not ideal-”

“No,” Thorin repeated emphatically. “I will not drag Bilbo into marriage for the sake of politics.”

Balin hesitated. “I didn’t say to Bilbo.” He peered closely at Thorin. “I didn’t realize you still cared for our burglar.”

“My burglar,” Thorin corrected before Balin’s words caught up with him. “I don’t,” he denied, even though he knew in his heart that he was lying through his teeth. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t want Balin to know that he was still in love with Bilbo except that it was such a private heartbreak, as much as he could have such a thing as king. He hadn’t realized just how transparent he appeared to the members of the Company. “You just said someone likeable. Bilbo Baggins is the most likeable person we know- knew.”

Balin didn’t look convinced in the slightest but he continued, “There’s a young advisor of your sister’s.”

Thorin tuned him out as he thought back to what he’d said. In the past, when he’d still harbored delusions of Bilbo returning to him, he had often considered marriage. The idea of wedding Bilbo had been a happy thought, one that had sustained him through tedious council meetings and long nights. After Balin’s ill-fated trip to Bree, he had since abandoned that fantasy but he still had been unable to consider marriage to anyone other than Bilbo Baggins. Even now, the thought of wedding someone else made his heart beat faster and not in a good way.

Cutting Balin off, he said for a third time, “No.”

Balin looked startled at how Thorin was refusing to even consider the plan. “Thorin-”

“I will not discuss this any longer. You said there were other ideas. We’ll turn to those.”

“Thorin, those ideas won’t work,” Balin pleaded. “I implore you to consider your people.”

“And what of myself?” Thorin demanded. “I have done everything for my people. I have wandered in the wilderness, lowered myself to speak to Thranduil, fought wars, faced a dragon all for my people. I ask this one thing, Balin, that I not have to betray Bilbo this way after I have betrayed him in all others. Can’t I just have this?”

“To be king is to give up your own desires,” Balin said. “You know this.”

“You said you had other ideas,” Thorin insisted stubbornly.

“Do you truly believe we would have come to you with such a drastic plan if we thought the other plans had even a chance of working?” Balin snapped.

“I will not wed another,” Thorin said, emphasizing each word.

Balin stood and walked out. At the door, he paused and looked back. “Then we must prepare for war.”

Thorin tried hard to push Balin’s words out of his mind over the next few months but they kept coming back. He could see rebellion in the eyes of the Dwarves who asked him for unreasonable favors, hear it in the words of the miners who worked long hours, smell it in the sickrooms of those who’d fallen ill over the winter. As king, assassination attempts were not uncommon but it seemed to him that they were increasing in frequency after his conversation with Balin. Dwalin seemed to notice it too and, accordingly, increased the guard around Thorin until he found it stifling to walk anywhere outside his rooms.

Moreover, he found it difficult to disregard Balin’s belief that marriage would make things better. For all that he didn’t want to believe Balin’s words, he knew that even the possibility of a happy ending was a powerful thing. He’d seen it before with the quest for Erebor- how even the slim hope that they could regain their home had aided their success- and how resentment had fostered when the chance of reclaiming Moria had been snatched from them.

He didn’t want to wed anyone other than Bilbo. He knew that now. It was a betrayal to both Bilbo and his own heart. But Bilbo was never going to return to the Lonely Mountain and, despite what he’d said to Balin, he couldn’t toss away the needs of his own people so lightly. They needed a strong king. They needed Thorin, not Nudaed or whoever they wanted to put on the throne. If what Balin said was true… then perhaps he needed to reconsider their conversation. He still thought it distasteful but if it really was necessary, then what right did he have to refuse it?

He often found himself wandering the corridors of the mountain, pondering the idea of marriage. Where he went, his guards followed, keeping him from wandering into trouble while he mused. In this way, he found hidden nooks that he’d never known existed, including a door that led to a ledge on the side of the mountain. This became the place where he spend the most time in solitude and it became his favorite spot to hide away when the duties of being king were too much to handle.

Perhaps it was too much to expect that the ledge would remain private for long what with his guards always following him. But, somehow, Thorin had thought that his spot would remain solely his and, as such, it was a great surprise when he found someone else there one quiet afternoon.

“Prince Legolas,” he greeted the Elf after he’d recovered from his shock.

Legolas inclined his head slightly. “Your Majesty,” he said before turning back to stare at the horizon.

Thorin suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen much of Legolas since Kíli had left to escort Nudaed to the Iron Hills. Kíli had not yet returned, having requested leave to stay to make sure Nudaed wasn’t planning anything further, and so, at first, Thorin thought that perhaps Legolas had been pining. But now, watching him, he didn’t think that was the case. There was too much tension in those lines.

“How are you finding Erebor?” he asked carefully, gently probing.

“Your mountain is as beautiful as Kíli promised it would be,” Legolas replied. He smiled ruefully at Thorin. “But it is still a mountain.”

Thorin nodded his understanding. Legolas felt trapped, stifled, the same way he himself had felt when lost in Mirkwood. But he had known that the Company would eventually make it out of the forest. Legolas had no such hope.

“And,” Legolas continued, “your people have not accepted me the way you have.”

Thorin closed his eyes against that truth. He had expected it of course. It hadn’t been a popular decision to allow an Elf into Erebor. No wonder his people plotted rebellion against him. But he hadn’t stopped to consider how Legolas must feel on the receiving end of such prejudice.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, knowing that it was a weak apology.

Legolas shrugged. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy when I fell in love with Kíli,” he said simply.

“That doesn’t make it right,” Thorin insisted.

Legolas’ rueful smile turned teasing. “Thorin Oakenshield, champion of my relationship with his nephew. Who would have believed it?”

Thorin returned his grin. It was true, he knew. Even as little as five years earlier, he would have refused such a match, citing the long-standing hatred between Elves and Dwarves as proof it wouldn’t have worked. But things had changed- he had changed- and anyone who looked at Legolas and Kíli could see how much they loved each other.

He had a flash of inspiration and he looked closer at Legolas. Legolas was royalty after all. Surely he must have some idea of what to do in a situation’s like Thorin’s.

“What would you have done if you couldn’t have been with Kíli?” he asked. “If, for the good of the Woodland Realms, you had to marry someone else?”

Legolas tipped his head back to look at the sky as he thought over Thorin’s question. “I wouldn’t have,” he finally said.

“Been with Kíli?”

“Married someone else.”

Thorin turned sharply to face him. “Why?” he asked.

Legolas looked back at him sadly. “Life is too short to refuse love when you find it.”

That made no sense. “You’re immortal,” he pointed out.

“But Kíli’s not,” Legolas replied. “And neither are you.” He sighed deeply. “My mother was immortal too until she met her death at the end of an orc’s sword. Immortality doesn’t guarantee invulnerability. My father fell apart when she died and yet, I would rather face that a thousand times than having never experienced this joy once.”

His gaze fell on something in the distance that only he could see. A beautiful smile spread across his face. “Kíli,” he breathed out. Abruptly, he turned and ran back into the mountain.

Thorin turned in the direction of Legolas’ gaze, straining to see what the Elf had seen. He thought he could make out a small cloud of dust. He put the sight together with Legolas’ words. His nephew must finally be returning from the Iron Hills. He too made his way through the corridors, following Legolas’ steps to the front gate. There he found Legolas pacing, waiting for the gates to open.

After another few minutes, the doors swung open and Kíli’s party clattered inside. Kíli caught sight of Legolas immediately and he went to him as soon as he dismounted. He drew the Elf down for a gentle kiss, whispering, “A’maelamin.” Thorin looked away, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment. When he next looked back at the couple, Kíli had pressed his forehead against Legolas’. Thorin watched them for a moment, observing how they moved around each other, and he suddenly knew what his answer to Balin was going to be.

At dinner that night, Thorin made certain that he was seated besides Balin. He paused before opening his mouth to think about his words. As he had watched Kíli and Legolas that afternoon, he had realized that he had felt the love that Legolas had been talking about. But he had lost it and he was never going to find it again. But that didn’t mean that his people couldn’t have peace.

“That advisor of Dis’,” he said quietly. Balin looked up, startled. “Tell me about her.”

“Him,” Balin corrected. Thorin nodded. “I think you’ll like him, Thorin.” As Balin began to tell him about Marin, the advisor from the Blue Mountains, Thorin realized that, while he would always love Bilbo, his answer to Balin’s question would have to be-

“Invite him here. I’d like to meet him.”


	13. To Rivendell

“Be careful, will you?” Dwalin said gruffly, smoothing down Balin’s vest. “The roads aren’t as safe as they once were.”

“I’ll be careful, brother,” Balin promised. “I’ve got the best guards Thorin could offer.” Thorin had originally planned on sending Balin alone to the Blue Mountains, with perhaps just a few guards as he believed his advisor to be more than capable of caring for himself, but Balin had insisted on the entourage.

“If Marin returns with me, it will look awkward if he doesn’t have a guard. A king’s betrothed is a precious thing,” he’d said.

“Returns with you?” Thorin had spluttered. “I thought you said you were just going to talk.”

Balin had patted his hand like he would a small child. “I am. But if he likes me well enough, he may very well plan to come sooner than we thought.”

Thorin had looked terrified at the very thought and Balin had felt a rush of sympathy. He knew well that Thorin’s heart would always belong to Bilbo. It had to feel like a betrayal of his feelings to even entertain thoughts of wedding another. Balin wished that there had been another way for Thorin to regain his people’s favor but they had been unable to find one.

He couldn’t deny that their plan was working splendidly. Though they had tried to keep it a secret, the news that Thorin was getting betrothed had spread through the mountain like wildfire. Nearly instantaneously, the feelings of the people had turned in Thorin’s favor, especially when the second wave of gossip claimed that King Thorin was madly in love with another but was wedding to protect his people. His popularity had grown so much that there was an unexpectedly large crowd gathered in the wan light of dawn to see Balin off to the Blue Mountains. Balin couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome but, as he gazed upon the miserable face of his king, he again wished that he’d been able to find a different solution.

“Mahal bless you on your travels,” Thorin said now. He held out a wrapped item. “When you see Marin, would you give him this token of my affections? There isn’t much mithril left in the mountain but I thought he might appreciate this.”

Curious, Balin unwrapped it to reveal a small bracelet. “It’s beautiful, Thorin,” he said honestly, “but what happened to the mithril coat? The one your grandfather gave your grandmother?”

Thorin shifted uneasily. “I couldn’t find it,” he said, the words falling easily from his lips. But he couldn’t quite meet Balin’s eyes and Balin had a suspicion that Thorin knew exactly what had happened to the mithril coat. Even so, he nodded and wrapped the bracelet back up, sticking it in a pack for safekeeping.

Balin mounted his pony and turned to go but, before they could truly set off, he felt a light touch on his ankle. He looked up to see Legolas standing beside him, an uncharacteristically humble expression on his face.

“Prince Legolas,” he greeted him.

“My lord Balin,” he said. “I have a request to make.”

“Ask away,” Balin said easily.

Legolas glanced behind him at Thorin and shifted so that the king couldn’t see his face. Feeling like the need for privacy was rather important, Balin followed suit. Legolas lowered his voice, such that Balin had to lean in to hear him, and said, “When you see Bilbo, will you tell him that I’m sorry I didn’t visit him again?”

Taken aback, Balin leaned away from the Elf. “I’m not planning to see Bilbo,” he said haltingly.

“Of course not,” Legolas assured him, flashing him a grin far more mischievous than one Balin had ever seen before. “Then, if you see Bilbo, will you tell him that I’m sorry I didn’t visit him again?”

Balin wasn’t entirely certain why he was nodding when he knew that he wasn’t going to see Bilbo but he found that he was indeed agreeing to the Elf’s request. Satisfied, Legolas stepped away, letting Balin’s pony go.

As the small company of Dwarves disappeared into the distance, Kíli stepped forward. He wrapped an arm around Legolas’ waist. “What did you ask him for?” he asked curiously.

“A promise,” Legolas said. He glanced at the despondent king who was still staring after his advisor. Smiling to himself, he added, “Just a promise to see an old friend.”

“And are you going to tell me why you’re smiling so?” Kíli asked, beginning to wonder if he was missing out on some grand joke.

“What? I can’t be cheerful because it’s a beautiful morning?” Legolas teased.

“Not when it makes you look secretive and mysterious.”

“Kíli, Legolas,” Thorin’s grumpy voice interrupted them. “Must you be so cheerful at this hour? Some of us are not yet awake.”

“Why, Uncle,” Kíli exclaimed, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Are you suggesting that I take my Elf to bed?” Beside him, Legolas snickered. “Very well, Uncle, as you command.” He took Legolas’ hand and began leading him out of the hall, nearly running into Dwalin. Dwalin harrumphed and shoved the two in the direction of their rooms. Thorin groaned loudly, rolling his eyes at his nephew’s antics.

In the hallway, Legolas paused and looked back at Thorin who was, once again, staring after Balin. “Don’t worry,” he murmured so softly that Kíli, a few paces ahead of him, couldn’t hear. “It’ll be okay.”

In the entrance, Dwalin muttered similar reassurances to Thorin though for a much different reason. He promised his old friend that this marriage was going to work out, that it was the best thing for Erebor, that Marin would be perfectly lovely and that Thorin wouldn’t regret his decision.

Yet, for all that Thorin appreciated Dwalin’s words, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making a terrible mistake. After another moment, he turned to enter the mountain. This might have been a mistake but it was one he’d already made. He would have to let the events play out as they would.

On the road, events were unfolding in a manner that wasn’t much to Balin’s liking. His guards were far more formal than he would have liked. Balin sighed every time one of the guards greeted him as “my lord.” These were not Thorin’s personal guards who had known him long enough to abandon such honorifics. These were soldiers of Erebor who were slightly in awe of a revered member of Thorin’s company and, as such, were uncomfortable referring to him by his given name, no matter how many times he told them otherwise.

The journey was uneventful and peaceful and, as a result, Balin occasionally found himself thinking that it was a shame that his role as Thorin’s advisor kept him inside the mountain so often. Not that he disliked his role as Thorin’s advisor and he certainly didn’t dislike his home in Erebor; it was more that he had grown used to a life of adventure on the open road and, sometimes, he missed it.

The miles sped below their ponies’ hooves and, though the onset of summer was lengthening the days, the hours seemed to speed by as well. It felt like barely a day had passed before they were already over the Misty Mountains and entering the Hidden Valley.

Through the protests of his guards, Balin had insisted on visiting Rivendell. They had already risked the ire of the Elves by speeding through Mirkwood, passing Thranduil’s halls by. There was no reason to do the same to Lord Elrond who Balin liked rather more than King Thranduil.

As he had on the quest to Erebor, Elrond granted them with open arms and an invitation to dine with him. With Thorin absent, it was Balin who was asked to sit at Elrond’s personal table. It was there that he ran into yet another old friend.

“Well met, Gandalf,” he greeted the wizard cheerfully. For all his riddles, Balin had always liked Gandalf and he’d been pleased to note that Gandalf had become a frequent visitor to Erebor since the lifting of his banishment.

“Well met, Balin,” Gandalf said, looking just as delighted to see him.

“What brings you to Rivendell?” Balin asked. He knew that Gandalf was a wanderer but it had always seemed to him that Gandalf only came to Rivendell for a specific purpose, rather than to visit.

Gandalf gestured towards Elladan and Elrohir. “I bring news from the Shire for Lord Elrond’s sons. They’ve cultivated a close friendship with Bilbo Baggins and, as he can’t visit them anymore, I’ve come to bring them news of our beloved hobbit.”

Balin eyed the two Elves closely. It didn’t surprise him to hear that Bilbo had become friends with the Elves- he’d shown great appreciation for Rivendell when they’d been there with the Company- but he still felt irrationally protective over Bilbo and he wanted to make sure that Elrond’s sons were worthy of the hobbit’s affections. Then Gandalf’s words sunk in and worry threaded its way through his heart. Was something wrong with Bilbo? What was keeping him from his travels?

“Can’t visit anymore?” he asked curiously. “Why not?”

Elladan opened his mouth to answer but Gandalf quickly said, “He’s become very busy these last few years. He’s a very influential hobbit, you know.”

Elrohir snorted into his salad, muttering something about Bilbo’s influence and a nephew but, as it made little sense, Balin paid it no mind.

“And you?” Elrond asked Balin politely, bringing the conversation back to its start. “What brings you so far west?”

Balin shrugged. “Thorin does,” he said easily. “You’ve heard of our plans to retake Moria, I assume?”

Elrond nodded solemnly. “A wedding gift for the princes Kíli and Legolas, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Balin said, slightly surprised. While it had been no secret that Thorin had planned to retake the mines, few had heard the reasoning behind it.

Elrond heard the surprise in Balin’s voice and smiled slightly. “Thranduil often complained about his son’s affections,” he said, sounding fairly amused. Elrohir snorted again.

Balin chuckled. He had heard of Thranduil’s fury and could only imagine how much worse it had to have been for Elrond. “Yes, well,” he continued. “Thorin’s decision to abandon Moria to the balrog-” he noted the simultaneous shudders from Elladan and Elrohir and again was grateful that Thorin had listened to Gandalf, “-wasn’t a popular decision. We’ve been having problems with insurgents.”

This seemed to be news to everyone. Gandalf and Elrond exchanged significant glances. The two younger Elves sat straighter in their chairs.

“Surely Thorin could deal with the uprisings,” Gandalf said, still looking troubled.

“He could,” Balin agreed with a small nod. “But we would prefer a peaceful solution if possible.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably. For all that he liked Gandalf, he wasn’t sure that he should be sharing stories of court intrigue with this group. He still remembered Elrond’s words of caution about their quest to retake the Lonely Mountain.

After a moment, Elladan asked, “What solution is that?”

“Isn’t it obvious, my dear brother?” a new voice- a feminine voice- asked.

“Arwen!” Elladan exclaimed. In an instant, he and Elrohir had risen from their seats to greet the latest guest. Balin’s eyes fell on her, the source of the light, musical voice, and his breath left him.

He’d never understood Kíli’s affinity for the Elves but he felt now that it made perfect sense. He had never seen a lovelier vision and he had seen quite a lot in the years he’d been alive.

He rose from his seat and bowed low. “Milady,” he greeted her. “Balin, at your service.”

She bestowed a beautiful smile on him. “Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond, at yours.”

From nowhere, Lindir produced another chair for Arwen. Balin remained standing until she had seated herself, only then did he sink back into his chair. Elladan and Elrohir were asking her eager questions- about her time in Lothlórien, about her Dúnedain suitor, about her early return- but Arwen waved them all away.

“Am I correct?” she asked Balin, eyes fixed on his. “Does Thorin Oakenshield plan to wed?”

A stunned silence fell across the table. Everyone seemed to poised, frozen, waiting for Balin’s answer. He nodded. “Yes, milady, he does,” he told her. Elladan gasped sharply and Elrohir murmured a soft, “No.” Elrond leveled those expressive eyebrows on his sons only to then turn them on Balin. Gandalf and Arwen alone seemed unsurprised, though Gandalf still looked troubled.

Balin wasn’t entirely certain he understood these reactions but he continued, “There is an advisor of Lady Dís’ that we believe would make a good match for Thorin.”

Abruptly, Elrohir stood. “I can’t listen to this,” he muttered and left the table. Elladan murmured an apology and then hurried after his brother.

Elrond made some sort of vague apology for the actions of his sons, steering the conversation back to a safe topic, but Balin was still puzzling over the strange reactions he’d received. The only possible explanation was that Bilbo… But, no, that didn’t make any sense. Balin had come to know Bilbo over the year they’d spent together. The hobbit was one of the most kindhearted people Balin had ever met. Surely, if he’d returned Thorin’s affections, he would have come to see the king during his recovery.

Balin was still puzzling over the events of the dinner when they left Rivendell the next morning. Their group had grown by one; Gandalf was traveling with them as far as the Shire. Ostensibly, it was because he was expected to set off his fireworks at some party. Balin knew, however, that Gandalf wanted information about Thorin’s decisions.

Indeed, Gandalf barely waited a day before beginning to ask Balin probing and uncomfortable questions. Balin fended them off as best as he could but he suspected that Gandalf was getting more than he meant to give him. The wizard never explained what he thought of Balin’s answers and so he was left to wonder what was going on.

The questions continued until they finally stood at the borders of the Shire. “Here, I must leave you,” Gandalf said. He studied Balin with that crafty gleam in his eyes. “Unless, of course, you wish to come with me. I’m sure Bilbo would be delighted to see you.”

At first, Balin thought to refuse the offer. He still remembered how Bilbo had avoided him in Bree all those years before. But then he reconsidered. This was a chance to find out why everyone had been acting so oddly in Rivendell and to deliver Legolas’ message. Besides, if he was truthful, he missed Bilbo. Although he had first thought the hobbit to be fussy and difficult, he had soon realized his mistake. Bilbo was uncommonly brave, devilishly clever, and extraordinarily kind. He had been honored to consider him a friend and hurt when Bilbo had left without saying goodbye.

“I think I will,” he declared, pleased to see that his reply had surprised Gandalf. He turned to his guards. “Would you continue on around the Shire? I’ll meet you where the North-South Road meets the Baranduin.”

Turning back to Gandalf, he said, “Shall we?”

Having achieved what he’d wanted, Gandalf dropped the probing questions and turned to asking Balin about life in Erebor. After a few hours, Balin noticed that the wizard was refusing to say anything about how Bilbo had been for the last several years but Balin supposed that he couldn’t fault him that. After all, he would much rather hear from Bilbo how he had been.

On their second day in the Shire, it began to rain and it continued all the way through their travels. They were nearly to Hobbiton when the gentle rain turned into a summer thunderstorm. But even a storm was relaxing in the Shire and so Balin didn’t mind the deluge. He remained relaxed until suddenly, he found himself standing in front of Bag End.

His gaze roved over the hobbit hole. Even though nearly fifteen years had passed since he had last seen it, it seemed like Bag End hadn’t changed at all. There was the bench out front and the round, green door and the garden that Bilbo had been so proud of.

Gandalf was walking briskly up to the door and knocking on it smartly. Balin followed behind him, slower, still trying to find any changes in Bag End. But it looked as though Bag End was the same as it had always been and he wondered what this meant for Bilbo.

Then the door swung open and Balin came face to face with a young hobbit child.

He stared blankly at the black curls and bright blue eyes. His first foolish thought was that the child looked rather like Thorin but then his brain caught up with him. Bilbo had a child. Bilbo who he had thought loved Thorin, who he had caught staring longingly at their king, who had shared that moment with Thorin when Smaug had attacked. That same Bilbo had a child, which meant… Bilbo had a wife. Bilbo had moved on.

White-hot anger swept over him. How dare Bilbo toy with his king’s emotions so lightly? How dare Gandalf not tell him about it? How dare Bilbo have a child?

The child gave them a dazzling smile and Balin pushed his anger to the back of his mind. Bilbo deserved his fury but not this child. He gave the child a tentative smile in return. The boy’s grin grew larger and then he threw himself at Gandalf, who swept him up in a tight hug.

“Hello Gandalf!” the child said brightly after the wizard had put him back down.

“Hello, my dear Frodo. Terrible weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Gandalf replied. “Are you going to invite us in?”

“I would,” Frodo said regretfully. His curious gaze fell on Balin. “But Uncle Bilbo says I can’t let strangers in the house.”

Dimly, Balin heard the words “Uncle Bilbo” but it didn’t quite register in his mind. What did the child- Frodo- mean to call Bilbo his uncle? Surely he didn’t mean that he wasn’t actually Bilbo’s son. Why would he have answered the door if he wasn’t truly Bilbo’s child?

Gandalf answered the boy with a pragmatic, “You could introduce yourself. Then you wouldn’t be strangers.”

Frodo fell silent as he thought over Gandalf’s words. Then his smile grew and he said, “I guess you’re right! I’m Frodo.”

Balin bowed slightly. “Balin, at your service.”

Several things happened in rapid succession: Frodo gasped, there was a loud thump from the hole as though something had fallen over, and then Bilbo Baggins was standing in front of him, shoving the boy behind him.


	14. An Unexpected Visitor

“Hello, Balin.”

Balin wasn’t entirely certain what he had been expecting but Bilbo’s flat politeness was not it. It reminded all too much of the Hobbit he had first met so many years ago and not the kind friend he had come to know.

“Afternoon, Bilbo,” he said cheerfully, hoping to coax out Bilbo’s smile.

But his cheeriness only seemed to gain suspicion in Bilbo’s mind and his eyes narrowed. “Have you come to drag me back?” he asked grimly.

Balin’s eyebrows raised. “Drag you back? Bless my beard, why would I do a thing like that?” he exclaimed.

This seemed to confuse Bilbo who frowned. “I’ve been banished,” he stated and the dim light in his eyes disappeared entirely. “Why else would you be here?”

Frodo poked his head out from behind Bilbo’s legs. “Mister Balin?” he asked. “Are you going to take Uncle Bilbo away?”

At his words, Bilbo stilled almost unnaturally. His hand fell to his side and Balin had to wonder if he was looking for a sword that he no longer wore. After a moment, his hand shifted back to settle in Frodo’s curls and settled there like he was comforting not just the boy but himself as well.

Balin chuckled gently. “No, laddie. I’m not going to take Bilbo away.”

“You’re not?” Frodo yelled excitedly.

“You’re not?” Bilbo repeated, looking slightly stunned. His nose twitched in confusion.

“You hear that, Uncle Bilbo! He’s not going to take you away!”

Bilbo nodded slowly, still looking surprised. “Why are you here then?” he asked, eyes falling to the ground. He sounded sad and Balin felt suddenly guilty for having left Bilbo alone for all those years. Bilbo had been banished; he couldn’t have gone to Erebor but the Company had had no excuse. They could have gone to see Bilbo if they’d so wished.

He sighed deeply, still saddened by the thought of Bilbo alone. “Ah, Bilbo, that is a tale,” he said. “But, perhaps, it’s best told inside.”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo said. He shook himself slightly. “Where are my manners? Please, come inside.”

He stood aside, allowing the two guests to enter. Gandalf stepped inside smartly, removing his hat and handing both it and his staff to Frodo. Balin followed, removing his cloak. Before he could hang it on the coatrack, Frodo held his hand out for the cloak.

“Hang them on the fire, Frodo,” Bilbo said quietly.

He led the way into the sitting room. “I’ve got some tea if you like,” he offered to the two. “Or perhaps I can break out the old vintage?”

“Just tea, thank you,” Gandalf said. He settled into a large chair close to the fire that certainly hadn’t been there the last time Balin had been to Bag End. Judging by how easily he fit in it, Balin thought that it might have been added just for him.

Bilbo looked to Balin. “Tea would be welcome,” he agreed. As Bilbo disappeared into the kitchen, Balin looked around Bag End. It may not have appeared changed from the outside but much was different on the inside.

Toys were scattered around the sitting room. Balin smiled to himself. He recognized the craftsmanship on the toys. He could remember all too well the day that Bifur had come back from the market muttering about how Gandalf had picked them up. None of them had been able to figure out what Gandalf had wanted with a set of toys but it seemed that he had found the set.

A set of parchments littered the table under the window. Balin drew nearer to look at them and saw a set of childish artwork, though surprisingly good. He glanced at Frodo, now happily playing in front of the fire, and assumed that he must have drawn them. His gaze was drawn to the set of portraits above the mantelpiece and then to the sword between them.

Even though he had left Erebor, it seemed that Bilbo had been unable to forget his adventures easily. Surely they must have meant something to him if he had kept Sting hanging above the fire.

A gleam of metal caught his eye and he turned back to the entryway. There, standing proudly, was the mithril coat that he had suggested Thorin give to Marin. For a brief moment, Balin was offended- wasn’t it enough that Bilbo had stolen the Arkenstone? Had he truly needed to steal the mithril coat as well?

But then he thought of the way Thorin had evaded his gaze when he’d said that he didn’t know what had happened to it. He thought of how it had once been a betrothal gift from Thrór to his intended and he thought that, perhaps, Bilbo hadn’t needed to steal the second-most precious item in the mountain. Perhaps he’d been given it instead.

Then he remembered why he was in the Shire in the first place and he suddenly realized that he couldn’t tell Bilbo why he was in the Shire.

Not if there was even the slightest chance Bilbo still cared for Thorin.

Bilbo reentered the room. He carried a tray laden with tea and cakes. Frodo jumped up to help him set out the cups. Bilbo’s hand seemed to be shaking slightly- whether from nerves or something else, Balin wasn’t sure- and so Frodo took the teapot from him to pour. Balin watched them silently. It had been nearly fifteen years since he’d last seen Bilbo but the years had been kind to their burglar. His hair was as golden-brown as it had always been, not a trace of gray in those curly locks. His bright eyes still appeared as sharp as they once had, not at all dulled by age.

He looked down at Frodo, absently noting the similarities between the child and their burglar, and found himself wondering how Bilbo had come to have a child. Did Bilbo have a wife somewhere in the back halls of Bag End? Or did Frodo mean something else to him?

“So Bilbo,” he said after he’d thanked Frodo for the tea. “How have the years been?” Then he winced. How had the years been? How much more tactless could he be? Bilbo had returned to Bag End alone- of his own choice, yes, but he had still been alone.

“Well,” Bilbo said with a slight smile. “After I was made to return here…” He began to share the story of the last several years. As he talked about his return to the Shire, Balin thought over his words. Made to return? That almost sounded like he’d been forced to return. But he hadn’t been, had he?

Bilbo turned a fond smile on Frodo as he talked about how the boy- Balin smiled more easily knowing that Frodo was Bilbo’s nephew and not his son- had come to live with him. Frodo cast an adoring grin up at Bilbo and Balin was struck by how well the two seemed suited to each other. When he had first met Bilbo, he would never have thought him to be the type of person to raise a child but clearly, Bilbo had been doing so for the past several years and doing it well.

He smiled and opened his mouth to ask a question but Bilbo groaned.

“But enough about me,” Bilbo said, waving off Balin’s questions. “Tell me about Erebor.”

“Erebor…” he began, trailing off as he wondered where to begin. “Oh Bilbo, you should see it.” He began with Thorin’s coronation and told him about the past years. Bilbo burst into hopeless giggles when he heard about Kíli’s journeys in the north.

“I’m sorry,” he said, still laughing. “It’s just that I told Legolas years ago that I thought he and Kíli would get along wonderfully.”

At that, Balin had to chuckle. “They do indeed. If you thought Kíli and Fíli were bad, it’s nothing compared to the three of them together.”

“I think I’d like to have seen that,” Bilbo said, more than a little wistfully.

Balin frowned. “You could have, laddie, if you’d stayed,” he reminded Bilbo, voice turning harsh as he thought of how much the Company had missed Bilbo.

Bilbo raised one astonished eyebrow. “No I couldn’t have,” he stated, the light in his eyes turning cold. “Or have you forgotten that I was banished?”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” Balin replied. “But you left before Thorin even had a chance to forgive you.”

Bilbo’s mouth fell open. “I left?” He looked at Gandalf like he was silently asking the wizard if Balin was to be believed. Gandalf seemed just as confused though and he turned back to Balin. “I didn’t leave!”

At his feet, Frodo stirred. He cast an anxious glance up at his uncle. Bilbo’s hand threaded into Frodo’s curls, a gesture that Balin was beginning to recognize as a way for the both of them to calm down.

“I believe you did,” Balin pointed out. “None of the Company ever saw you after the battle.”

“Because you didn’t want to see me,” Bilbo said, hurt coloring his tone. “I tried, Balin. I tried the day of the battle and the next day and the day Thorin was moved to Erebor and so many times until he woke up and I was turned away every time because I was banished, because Dwalin said I was banished. I didn’t leave. You just didn’t look for me.”

“My brother said you were banished,” Balin repeated, utterly shocked. Why, Dwalin had been just as worried about Bilbo as he had been! Perhaps more so because he had come to view protecting Bilbo as sacred a duty as protecting his king. “That’s not possible.”

“Do you mean to tell me now that I was mistaken?” Bilbo retorted. “That every guard in Erebor somehow misheard?”

“Yes!” Balin replied incredulously. “Bilbo, you are a part of the Company. You had just as much right to be in Erebor as any of us.”

Bilbo visibly deflated, shrinking in on himself. He smiled sadly. “No, Balin. I _was_ a part of the Company. Thorin has made it very clear that I am not so anymore.” He stood, patting Frodo’s head gently. “Excuse me. I need to prepare supper.”

As soon as Bilbo had left, Balin turned to Gandalf. “Is what he said true?” he asked urgently.

Gandalf nodded solemnly. “It is,” he said. He began to tell Balin of all that had happened after the battle: of Bilbo’s visits to the king’s tents, of his assistance in Dale, of his travels to Mirkwood, and of his return to the Shire. When it was done, Balin sat back stunned. It simply couldn’t be true. So much heartbreak couldn’t have come from such a simple misunderstanding. He wasn’t sure how the guards had heard that Bilbo had been banished but Dwalin certainly hadn’t told them…

Maybe Dwalin hadn’t told them at all.

He had vague memories of Dwalin telling Dain about their quest while they’d waited for word from Thranduil. He loved his brother dearly but he’d been the first to admit that Dwalin hadn’t been gifted with a quiet voice. Maybe the guards had heard him. Maybe they’d thought that Bilbo was a possible threat. Maybe they’d taken it upon themselves to protect the king from any perceived threats. Maybe this truly was all just a misunderstanding.

Wasn’t that a horrifying thought?

“Mister Balin?” Frodo asked, tugging at his sleeve. He looked down at the small boy. “Uncle Bilbo told me that he thought Thorin loved him. Does he?”

“Why do you ask, laddie?” Balin asked kindly.

“Because I want Uncle Bilbo to be happy and I think he’d be happy with Thorin,” Frodo said.

“Yes, Frodo. He does,” he said, staring at the mithril coat.

“Then he should be here,” Frodo replied simply.

Balin had to marvel at the way a child’s mind worked. If Thorin loved Bilbo and Bilbo loved Thorin, then they should be together. Never mind the politics. Never mind the years of separation. Never mind the fact that Thorin was getting married…

Thorin was getting married.

Oh Mahal, he had made a terrible mistake.

“Is Bilbo unhappy?” he asked instead, trying not to dwell on the horrible mistake he’d made.

“He doesn’t say so,” Frodo said, shrugging. He got up and took down a small book. “But he missed you.” He handed the book to Balin.

Balin turned the book over in his hands, noting the embossed title on the cover: _There and Back Again_. He ran his fingers over Bilbo’s name beneath the title. Frodo eyed him like he was deciding if Balin was worthy of the book.

“Don’t let Uncle Bilbo see you with it,” he warned. “Uncle Bilbo doesn't know I've read it.”

Balin nodded his understanding and slipped the book inside his vest. He only took it out late that night, after Frodo had been put to bed and Bilbo had shown him to one of Bag End’s many guest rooms. Once more, he ran his hands over the title and then he opened the book and began to read.

More and more, he was convinced that he had made a mistake. He shouldn’t have suggested that Thorin get married. Or perhaps he shouldn’t have come to the Shire. Perhaps he should have just left the issue alone. He thought back to Legolas’ words before he’d left the mountain and he wondered if the Elf had known.

He had to fix this. He couldn’t let Thorin and Bilbo go through life miserable. They both deserved to be happy. The question was: how best to fix it?

He puzzled over the question for much of the few days he was at Bag End. The more he watched Bilbo, the more he came to realize the depth of the hobbit’s feelings for his king. While Bilbo asked questions about all of the Company’s members, he asked mostly about Thorin and any time Frodo brought up the subject of the Dwarven king, Bilbo would still in whatever he did so he could listen closely to Balin’s words. Painfully, Balin was reminded of how Thorin would do the same thing regarding Bilbo. He should never have pushed Thorin to wed. He should have found another way for Thorin to regain his people’s favor.

But he was worried that it was too late. Thorin was committed now.

A small voice in the back of his mind though kept asking him to think about what Thorin would do if he knew. What he might do if he knew that Bilbo still loved him.

It all came to a head on the last night Balin was visiting Bag End. He and Bilbo had snuck away for a private smoke, Gandalf staying behind to watch Frodo for a few hours. Balin had developed a fondness for Old Toby the last time he’d been in the Shire and he had been delighted to be able to purchase a pouch to take with him back to Erebor. Now, though, Bilbo had lent him some of his own stash, waving away Balin’s complaints with an airy hand.

“You’ll want to make that pouch last as long as you can,” he’d said. “I doubt you’ll soon get another chance to travel this far.”

It was the most relaxed the two had been since their argument that first night. Bilbo had been the perfect host- cordial and friendly- but he hadn’t truly relaxed around Balin until tonight. Balin couldn’t help but wonder if Bilbo was so calm because he knew Balin was leaving the next day.

“I’m sorry,” he said into the companionable silence.

Bilbo looked up at him sharply. “For what?” he asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.

“For letting you think we had abandoned you.”

Bilbo stilled for a moment and then tried to shrug off Balin’s words. “It’s no matter.”

Balin shook his head. “Yes it is. I don’t know how we got so crossed up but it wasn’t right of us. We should have searched harder for you. We did try, you know,” he said, feeling it was important that Bilbo know they hadn’t simply left him behind.

“I know,” Bilbo said softly. His nose twitched and he tilted his head back to stare at the appearing stars. “Bard told me. Quite the mistake, wouldn’t you say?”

His tone was light- too light in Balin’s opinion. “There’s no need to pretend you’re not angry,” he said reassuringly.

“I’m not angry,” Bilbo said. Balin scoffed softly but Bilbo still heard it and he offered the Dwarf a small smile. “Really, I’m not. I was for a while and I was that first night but I’m not anymore. It was a misunderstanding.

“I can’t say I’m glad I left Erebor because I had to leave all of you but my return to the Shire brought Frodo to me. I think I needed him just as much as he needed me. I don’t know what might have happened to him if I hadn’t been here for all that I wish I could have seen a restored Erebor.”

“And now?” Balin asked after a moment.

Bilbo’s brows furrowed confusedly. “And now what?”

“Would you travel to Erebor now?”

It was as though the world had frozen. Bilbo stared at him, a look of shocked fear stamped across his face. For his part, Balin stared back steadily. This was such a loaded question and yet, it was so important that he know the answer.

“I-” Bilbo stuttered. “No.”

This hadn’t been the answer Balin had been expecting. Everything he’d seen over the last few days had suggested that Bilbo would have loved to return to Erebor, to Thorin. How could he have been so mistaken?

“No,” Bilbo said again, firmer this time. “It might have been a misunderstanding that kept me from seeing you after the battle but it was certainly not such a misunderstanding that kept Thorin from seeing me. The way Bard put it, he'd barely been awake an hour before officially banishing me. I don’t think Thorin would have cared that I hadn’t been to see him if he truly wanted me there. I don’t know that I would be welcome in Erebor and I will not drop everything to run after a group of Dwarves. Not again and not while Frodo is so young.”

His gaze fell upon the hills of the Shire, tracing each path silently. Balin’s eyes followed, wondering not for the first time what Bilbo saw in the landscape. It was lovely, yes, and peaceful but it would never compare to the glittering gems hidden in the depths of the earth.

After a long moment, Bilbo asked wearily, “Why are you here, Balin?”

“For Thorin,” he replied, surprising even himself with his honesty.

There was flash of something in Bilbo’s eyes. Balin rather thought it might have been hope. “Thorin sent you to the Shire?” he queried.

Balin shook his head. “No. He doesn’t know that I’m here. Thorin has sent me to the Blue Mountains. I thought it might be nice to pop in for a visit.”

He didn’t think he missed the hint of regret in Bilbo’s expression. “The Blue Mountains? What business would Thorin have in the Blue Mountains?”

“Well, he does rule over them as much as he does Erebor,” Balin reminded him. He would never be entirely certain of what possessed him to speak his next words. He could only assume that it was madness, or perhaps a delirium set on by the Old Toby. But next thing he knew-

“He’s getting married. He’s sent me to the Blue Mountains to escort his intended to Erebor.”

If Bilbo’s expression before had been carefully shuttered, only allowing hints of his thoughts to peek through, then the naked heartbreak now was an open door. Bilbo gasped, averting his face to hide the sudden sheen of tears, “What?”

For a moment, Balin wondered if he was doing the right thing. Maybe it would have been better if Bilbo had gone through life only thinking that Thorin no longer cared for him, rather than believing that he wasn’t as important as he’d hoped. But he pushed on, thinking that he’d already made his bed.

“Thorin’s decision to leave Moria to the balrog met with more opposition than we’d expected. His advisors thought that his wedding would win back the people’s favor.”

“Of course,” Bilbo murmured, voice thick. “Thorin agreed?”

“I don’t think I’d be here if he hadn’t. I doubt I need to tell you how stubborn he is.”

“No,” Bilbo agreed. Once he might have laughed at the reminder but now he only looked saddened by how Thorin had agreed to the idea of his marriage. “That’s wonderful news. I- I should congratulate him.”

He stood, motioning for Balin to remain seated. “I’ll be right back,” he promised and then fled into the safety of his home.

It was nearly an hour before he saw Bilbo again. He was clutching several pieces of parchment and he held them out for Balin to take.

“Can you make sure these get to Thorin? It’s a letter for him. I know I didn’t leave on the best of terms but I still want to congratulate him.”

Balin took the letter. “Wouldn’t you want an envelope?” he asked, slightly confused.

“Will you read these first?” he asked. “I don’t want to offend him. I know how you can stand on ceremony.”

Balin read through the letter, noting everything that Bilbo said- and everything that he didn’t. At the end, he sat back, thinking that something was off about the letter but he wasn’t certain what it was. He read back through the words, searching for that sense of wrongness. Then he spotted what was throwing him off and he smiled to himself. Just like that, he had a plan to fix his mistake and, if it all worked out, to make both Thorin and Bilbo happy.

“Laddie,” he said, smiling broadly at Bilbo. “This is perfect.”


	15. The Letter to Thorin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I'm back and hopefully for good this time. My apologies for leaving you all but I definitely needed to rewrite the last couple of chapters. I've received a bunch of questions over the last few months so let me address them here:
> 
> Why'd you go on hiatus?  
> Back in May, someone was kind enough to point out the last three chapters I had posted resembled a different story way too much. I was horrified to find that they were right, though not terribly surprised (a combination of sleep deprivation, depression, and a medication that's trying to keep me alive had the lovely side effect of creating holes in my memory where the writing would normally be). The chapters were taken down immediately so I could rewrite them. Normally, I would have posted them again within a few days but I had just graduated college and was going on vacation and then I was moving across the country so I couldn't even get to this story until late July and I was too busy to look at the edits until a few days ago (my beta had to quit so if anyone's interested, let me know). If you still think that the updated chapters are too similar, please come let me know. I'm not sure what else I can do but I'll try.
> 
> Congratulations on graduating! What's your degree in?  
> Chemistry and, trust me, I make a much better chemist than I do an author.
> 
> You said you moved?  
> Yeah, all the way to Florida for grad school. So I hope you'll understand when I say that I can't promise to keep a steady updating schedule. I'll try but my degree takes the first priority.
> 
> What is your updating schedule?  
> I try to keep to once every two weeks.
> 
> So you're definitely off hiatus now?  
> Yep! Like I said, I'll try to keep to the whole update every two weeks thing but I'll try to let y'all know if something changes.
> 
> Are you planning to write any more in this universe?  
> Maybe? I have a few ideas to continue stories in this universe (the story between Legolas and Kíli comes to mind) but I don't know if anyone would be interested in reading them.
> 
> You seem like a cool person. Can I talk to you on tumblr or twitter or whatever?  
> Sure! I'm flattered you think I'm cool (I think you're making a mistake, I'm terribly boring, but flattered nonetheless). I have a twitter that I never use except to keep up with updates from my school (because for some reason, it's faster than the email service). I also have an Instagram that I rarely update but if you're truly interested, come find me. I also have a tumblr account that I'm on fairly regularly. Feel free to message me but I almost never get message notifications so I apologize if I miss you or something. My username on all of the above accounts is the same one it is here- @iam93percentstardust. Come talk to me!

_~~Dearest Thorin,~~ _

_~~Dear Thorin,~~ _

_~~Dear Thorin Oakenshield,~~ _

_To Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, Lord of the Silver Fountains,_

_Greetings and good fortune to you!_

_And now I feel rather silly because that does sound pretentious, doesn’t it? I must confess though that I didn’t know any other way to begin this letter. I didn’t want to sound overly familiar as I no longer have such a claim upon your person and I certainly didn’t want to offend you by writing the wrong thing. I do apologize for using your epithet; I’m sure it doesn’t belong in your title but it is how I know you best. I would have asked Balin the proper way to address you but this letter is fairly personal and I wasn’t sure I wanted Balin reading it._

_I’d also apologize for the previous greetings but ~~I wanted you to know how much I miss you~~ ~~how much you still remain dear to me~~ I was running low on paper and ink and couldn’t make a trip to the market to purchase more. After all, Balin is leaving tomorrow and I had little time in which to write this letter. But I’m sure that you don’t want to have to see my thought process so, for all that I was running short on time, I am sorry that you must see the ramblings of my mind._

_Although I was delighted to see Balin on my doorstep, I was beyond surprised at his arrival. There were times when it seemed that my adventures of nearly fifteen years ago were only a dream. That I had dreamt up Erebor and the dragon and the Company and you. ~~Most of all, you. How could I, a lowly Hobbit, deserve such a story?~~ But I suppose that the sword hanging over the fireplace and the mithril coat on display in my front hall are more than enough proof that I didn’t dream any of it._

_I have missed ~~you~~ the Company. All those years ago, when I left Erebor, I never thought that I would see any of you again. I knew that I would never again return to the Lonely Mountain, to the city of Dale, or to the halls of Erebor. I had been banished for my actions preceding the Battle of Five Armies and so I had to set on my long journey home._

_I am sorry, Thorin, but I cannot apologize for my deeds leading to my banishment. Though I regret that I had to leave you behind ~~and that I lost your love~~ , I can’t regret my return to the Shire. It brought me to the one who returned purpose to my life, to the light of my life, my beloved Frodo._

_But I’m getting far ahead of myself. I’ve only talked about my life up to this point so allow me to return to yours._

_As I said, I was more than excited to see Balin. I hadn’t thought to see any member of the Company after I fled Erebor and so to see him again was a much welcomed and wonderful treat. I understand that he came to Bag End with neither your permission nor your knowledge and I’m sure that it was much trouble on his part. I can’t imagine that the punishment for visiting a banished one is any lesser than the same banished one returning to the place they’ve been banished from._

_…I’m not entirely certain that sentence made any sense but I’ll leave it anyway._

_I was delighted to hear news from Erebor, about both you and the Company. When I was first banished, I often sought to travel outside the borders of the Shire to hear such news. But the news that came to the areas surrounding the Shire rarely spoke of anything other the most basic and public of events. The Dwarves visiting Bree were more than willing to talk about the mines and riches of the Lonely Mountain and about the happenings of her king but never about the rest of the Company. Then, after Frodo came into my life, I was no longer able to travel past the borders of the Shire and so I lost all sources of news about the affairs of Erebor._

_But then Balin arrived and was more than willing to tell me all about the lives of the Company in the years since I left. It seems that you’ve done well for yourself, Thorin. From all that Balin has told me, you’ve been a wonderful king for your people. I always knew that you would be. I know that, at times during the quest, you doubted yourself, worried that you were doing the wrong thing or that you would be a poor king. For all that I, or another member of the Company, tried to reassure you, you were quick to disbelieve us. But you’ve done so well. It’s clear to me that your people adore you. You have become the king that I always said you could be, ~~the king that I~~._

_I’m so proud of you._

_You’ve done nothing but good by your people since you took the throne. Yes, I’m including my banishment in that. I was angry and hurt at first but no longer. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that you were right. I had wronged you, betrayed you. You could no longer trust me and so you sent me away._

_That being said, I thought that our words at Ravenhill meant something. You said that you wanted to take back what you’d said at the gate but then you woke up and immediately told Bard and Thranduil that my banishment still stood. Balin said that it was because you thought I had left, that after all that had happened between us, I had still given up on you._

_I’m telling you now that you were wrong._

_I didn’t give up on you. I tried time and time again to see you, after the battle and the next day and when you were moved to Erebor and so many times after that. I was refused each time. It was nothing more than a simple misunderstanding- a few guards who thought that I was still banished- but it is the only thing that kept me from you. I don’t know why the Company was unable to find me when they came to Dale but I spent the month you were recovering helping to rebuild the city. I can understand why Bard thought I had left; I had spent quite a bit of time talking about how much I missed the Shire and how I needed to be getting home._

_What I can’t understand is why you didn’t wait to hear from me before deciding that I had left forever. Did I mean so little to you, Thorin? Bard was wrong. I was coming back. I had come back. He saw me only an hour after you had declared me banished, horrified to see that I had returned from Mirkwood to this news. It was only then that I decided to leave, to return home to Bag End, left wondering what I had done wrong to deserve this treatment._

_I’ll be honest, Thorin. It was hard, the journey home. I spent two months living in Rivendell because Erebor seemed so much further away west of the Misty Mountains. I missed you desperately and I couldn’t help but blame myself for not doing enough. I should have tried harder to see you, should have figured out a way into Erebor. Maybe then you wouldn’t have sent me away._

_Returning home was even harder. It wasn’t the peaceful, triumphant homecoming I had been imagining for thirteen months. My return caused more than a little of a disturbance. In my absence, I was presumed dead. This is, of course, traditional in the Shire, one that I had always looked favorably upon- until it affected me! As such, I returned to Bag End in the middle of an auction. Folk were walking off with my best dining room chairs and my mother’s glory box left and right! It was such an affair, taking several months to sort out. I won’t bore you with the details; I’m sure you don’t want to hear about them. Suffice to say, not everyone was happy to see me alive and well and fewer yet were willing to simply return to me my own belongings._

_Certainly, I was no longer the hobbit that had run out my front door with nary a handkerchief. The other hobbits didn’t know what to do with me. I was traveled and learned, worldly in a way they could never hope to be. I know they whispered about me when they thought I couldn’t hear, calling me “unusual” and “Mad Baggins.” I never minded much but it was a disheartening experience._

_Then, after I had settled back in… Well, it was lonelier than ever. I had been abandoned, cast out of the city I had thought could become my home. I’ll be honest with you, there were times when I wondered if the names and the ridicule were worth it. My spirits had sunk to new depths._

_It was in the midst of this depression that I found myself venturing forth out of the Shire once more. I had meant to travel only as far as Bree, not far from my own home, but I instead decided to continue on to Rivendell. I’m glad that I did. I have become close friends with Lord Elrond and his two sons, Elladan and Elrohir. I particularly like spending time with Elladan and Elrohir as they remind me of Fíli and Kíli. I even became good friends with Thranduil’s son, Legolas. I’ve been told that Legolas is now seeing Kíli, even living inside Erebor. I’m glad to hear it; I can’t think of a better-suited pair._

_When I left Erebor so long ago, Thranduil named me Elf-friend, a high honor as Gandalf was quick to assure me. I never thought that I would ever use this title but I am glad now to count them as friends. They’re dear to me, as much as the Company was at one time. They’ve supported me in my continued adventures, offering me safety and guidance when I needed it, and have even come to see me in Bag End now that I can no longer leave the Shire._

_But, for all that the Elves have been wonderful, they are nothing compared to Frodo. It is Frodo who dragged me out of my lonely, reclusive life to rejoin the world. I first met him three years after my eventful return to the Shire. He never knew me as anything other than Mad Baggins and yet that didn’t stop him from loving me as only he could. He listens to my stories and goes with me on my adventures, though he is unable to travel past the borders of the Shire._

_But, for all his love and support, I was apprehensive about wholly letting him into my life. Love had betrayed me once before and I was hesitant to give anyone the power to do so again._

_Fate has a funny way of working out though and, six years ago, unavoidable circumstances threw us together. Since he is quite a bit younger than me, I hardly knew what to do with him, nor he with me, though I had considered him a friend before. The difference in our years scarcely seemed to matter when we were merely friends but now that we were living together, well. It took us some time to get used to each other, as he was no longer just my friend. Those first few months, I wasn’t sure that we had enough in common to make our living arrangements work but I have never been more happy to be wrong. He brought much-needed joy and laughter into my life. True, he is sometimes louder than I’d like and he’s quite the troublemaker but I can’t imagine my life without him._

_He has made me far happier than I ever hoped to be. After leaving Erebor in disgrace, I had thought that I would never find love again but as with so many other things, Frodo has proven me wrong. While I could never say that I am glad to have been forced to leave you, I can honestly say that I am glad I was made to return to the Shire because it brought me to Frodo. I need him just as much as he needs me and I will be happy to spend the rest of my days with him._

_I do miss you though. You and the rest of the Company. I know that, as king, you probably couldn’t get away to come visit the Shire but I’d love to hear from you again. Or even just to see another member of the Company. This visit from Balin was wonderful but over all too quickly. But I completely understand if you don’t want to correspond with me. I know you Dwarves have your pride and I greatly wounded yours. For all I know, you’ll throw this letter in the fire without even opening it and my words will have been for naught._

_But I’m beginning to run out of parchment so I’ll come around to what I’m really writing this letter about._

_Balin has told me you plan to wed._

_I can’t say I wasn’t surprised. The news came as a shock to me, as I’m sure Balin will attest to. He has explained your reasoning and I understand why you’ve decided to marry ~~though I don’t think~~. I wish you all the best of luck. I’m sure that you will make a wonderful husband just as you’ve made a wonderful king. I’ll wager that you’re more than a little nervous but you mustn’t be. Any Dwarf would be lucky to have you. ~~I only wish~~_

_Congratulations, Thorin. I wish you every happiness with your betrothed and all your future endeavors._

_~~Love,~~ _

_~~Bilbo~~ _

_Fondly,_

_Bilbo Baggins_


	16. Reading

Balin arrived back in Erebor with as much fanfare as he’d received when he’d left. He was fairly certain though that, this time, it wasn’t for him. After all, he’d been well received in the Blue Mountains and Marin had liked Balin so much that he’d decided to return with him. He rather thought the crowd packing the front hall was entirely for Marin.

Marin, he had discovered on the return journey, was remarkably likeable. He was noble and wise, uncommonly kindhearted and exceedingly brave. He was the perfect foil to Thorin’s quick temper and stubborn ways. Balin thought privately that the man would make an excellent consort.

It was a shame Marin wouldn’t get the chance.

Thorin was not there to greet them in the front hall. Balin wasn’t terribly surprised at this. After all, it was unseemly for the king to greet his betrothed in the doorway, no matter how close a friend other members of the returning party may be.

Balin spied Dwalin fighting his way through the throng. He wanted to push through to his brother’s side as well, to reassure him that all would work out, but knew he couldn’t leave Marin alone in this crowd. After another few moments, Dwalin managed to shove the last person aside.

Dwalin leaned down and muttered in Balin’s ear, “Thorin’s in the throne room. Told you to take as long as you could.”

Balin shook his head. “I won’t delay on purpose,” he retorted. “Thorin’s had months to get used to this.”

Dwalin shrugged, looking unconcerned though Balin knew it was a thin veneer hiding his worry. “Think he just needs to gather his courage,” he said as he straightened up.

Turning, Balin motioned for Marin to join them. “Come with me, laddie,” he said. “The king is waiting for you.”

They made their way through the crowd, pushing aside those who refused to move. It seemed that there were even more dwarves in the hall now as the news had spread that Thorin’s betrothed had arrived. Dwalin kept a close eye on those nearest to Marin, one hand on his axe at all times.

Thorin was indeed waiting for them in the throne room. A casual observer might have said that Thorin looked perfectly comfortable, eager even, to meet his betrothed but Balin knew better. He could see the tension in Thorin’s neck, the stress in his back, the misery in his blue eyes. His heart went out to his king who had no idea of Balin’s plans for him. He partially wished that he could tell Thorin what he was going to do but he couldn’t. Thorin wouldn’t respond well to such manipulations and it was important for him and Bilbo to come together as naturally as they could under the circumstances.

He stepped forward, bowing low. “Your Majesty,” he greeted the king. “May I have the honor of presenting to you Lord Marin of the Blue Mountains, advisor to the Lady Dís?”

For the briefest of moments, Thorin hesitated. Balin was sure he knew what his friend was thinking: that this was his last chance to refuse. Again, his heart broke for his lovesick friend but he said nothing.

Then, the moment passed. Thorin waved Marin forward, standing as he approached. “Welcome, Lord Marin,” he said, offering the man a slight nod.

Marin bowed in return. “Please, Your Majesty, honor me by calling me Marin,” he said softly.

Thorin’s mouth just barely tightened. It was traditional for a betrothed pair to call each other by their given names but Balin was sure that it was a liberty Thorin didn’t want to take.

“As you wish, Marin,” he said just as softly, the grimace disappearing from his face. Balin didn’t think Marin had even seen it. He smiled warmly as he continued, “Then I insist you call me Thorin.”

Thorin turned to wave Dori forward. “This is Dori,” he introduced the dwarf. “My steward. I’m sure you’ve had a long journey and would like to rest. Dori can show you to your rooms.” For all that the pleasant words were phrased as a suggestion, Balin was certain that Thorin didn’t mean them as such and would even push the issue should Marin refuse.

But Marin merely bowed again and asked, as he was ushered out of the hall, “Will you join me for supper?”

Thorin smiled widely and said, “I can think of no greater pleasure.”

With Marin gone, the throne room quickly emptied. The moment the hall was empty, Thorin’s smile dropped as quickly as it had appeared. He groaned, throwing himself back onto his throne, eyes closing shut.

“Balin,” he called, raising his voice. Balin moved closer. “I can’t do this. Give me a thousand goblin hordes over this- this political campaigning!”

Balin winced in sympathy. “You have no choice,” he reminded him. “Erebor has already fallen once.”

Thorin only groaned louder.

“Right,” Balin said matter-of-factly. He pulled Bilbo’s letter out from his pocket, holding it out. “I have something else for you.” One eye peeked open. “A letter from the Shire.”

Thorin bolted upright, grabbing for the letter. “From the Shire?” he asked, clutching it close. “From…?”

“Yes,” Balin reassured him. “From Bilbo. He was quite excited to hear from us, you know.”

“He was?” Thorin sounded lost and Balin glanced at him to see his brow furrowing in confusion. He nodded and smiled, thinking of how Bilbo had eagerly listened to every scrap of news Balin had brought from Erebor.

“What does he say?” Thorin asked, fingers caressing the letter as though he were unsure of opening it.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Balin lied. “It would be rude to read someone else’s letters.”

Thorin eyed him like he didn’t quite believe him. Balin pasted the blandest look he could muster on his face. After a moment, Thorin tucked the letter away in a pocket and rose from his throne.

“He was eager for you to read that,” Balin said, gently nudging Thorin towards reading the letter. Thorin nodded absently, patting the pocket he’d placed the letter in.

Balin hadn’t been expecting Thorin to read the letter immediately but neither was he expecting the long silence he received. Weeks went by and still Thorin hadn’t burst into his office to complain about Bilbo’s words. If Balin didn’t know Thorin as well as he did, he might have thought that Thorin had thrown the letter in the fire, the way Bilbo had thought he might. But he did know Thorin well and so he thought that Thorin was putting it off. In the meantime, Thorin’s courtship with Marin was proceeding exactly as planned. The two could often be spotted walking the halls of Erebor together, talking in low voices about everything from poetry to the treasures of the mountain to Thorin’s hopes for his kingdom. It looked like the two would make a wonderful match.

How it angered Balin.

He knew now that there was still hope for Thorin and Bilbo. He knew that they would be far better suited to each other than Thorin and Marin could ever hope to be. He knew that this could all be fixed if Thorin would just read the damned letter.

A month after he’d arrived back in Erebor, he decided that he could wait no longer. He’d given Thorin time to read Bilbo’s letter on his own but now he needed to push. Beyond the fact that it was important to Thorin’s wellbeing that he read it, it was exceedingly rude to Bilbo to just toss it aside.

He rapped smartly on Thorin’s office door and then let himself inside without waiting for an answer. Thorin was seated at his desk, a familiar envelope clutched in his hand. He’d clearly been contemplating it. The king looked up when Balin entered, one sardonic brow rising.

“Come in, why don’t you?” he muttered.

“Thank you, I will,” Balin replied, shrugging off Thorin’s sarcasm and sitting in the chair next to the desk. After all, it was nothing new.

“What brings you to this side of the mountain?” Thorin asked.

Balin pointed at the envelope. “That does. You need to read it, Thorin. It’s important that you do.”

Thorin leaned back in his chair. “Why is it so important?” he said, a grimace twisting his face. “I thought you said you don’t know what’s in it.”

Nearly too late, Balin remembered his lie that he hadn’t seen the contents of the letter. “I don’t,” he said as evenly as he could. “But I know Bilbo and I know how worried he was when he gave it to me. Rather like his words meant something.”

“Really, now,” Thorin drawled, folding his arms behind his head. “What important words could have a hobbit have for a king?”

Balin knew this tactic of his friend’s. He was trying to deflect, to hide how scared he was to read the letter. Thorin was utterly terrified to hear what Bilbo might have to say in such a letter, especially one written so long after their less than amiable parting.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “But neither will you, unless you read it.” Thorin was quiet, thinking about Balin’s words. He continued, “Don’t you think you owe Bilbo at least this last goodbye?”

Thorin startled at that. “Do you think that’s what it is?” he asked urgently, nonchalant tone giving way to worry.

“I believe it could be,” Balin said truthfully. It could indeed be a goodbye depending on what Thorin did after reading it.

Thorin gazed down at the envelope for only a second more before he was tearing it open. Balin stood to leave but Thorin held out a hand to stop him. “Stay. Please.” Balin sat back down.

Thorin stared at the letter, heart clenching at the sight of Bilbo’s familiar handwriting. Bilbo would never know how many times Thorin had snuck the contract out of Bilbo’s pack just to stare at his signature. He choked back a sob as he traced a finger over the letters he’d thought he would never see again.

Slowly, he began to pore over the letter but almost immediately, he stopped. “Look at this,” he said, holding out the parchment to Balin. “He calls me ‘dearest’ but then he crosses it out. What could he mean by that?”

Balin barely glanced at the words before saying carefully, “You ejected him from the mountain, rather harshly I might add. What do you think he means?”

“Right,” Thorin muttered as his heart twinged painfully. He doubted that Bilbo thought he had any right to still call Thorin “dearest.” As a matter of fact, if Thorin hadn’t still loved him, he would have thought that Bilbo’s overly formal address was only barely enough. He turned back to the letter, reading not just what Bilbo had written but also what he had crossed out.

“He still misses me?” Thorin asked a few moments later, looking back up at Balin.

Balin smiled gently. “Oh yes. Very much so.”

“But he says that he doesn’t regret returning to the Shire.” Thorin was confused. He didn’t see how Bilbo could claim to miss him so much when he had left, still not regretting what he’d done.

Balin sighed deeply. “I recall him saying so. But, Your Majesty will have to forgive me for saying so, it’s more complicated than Bilbo could possibly put in a letter. I believe he regrets that he had to leave but not that he had to return.”

Thorin murmured Balin’s words to himself, trying to make sense of them… Nope, they were nonsense. “That makes no sense,” he stated flatly, still trying to puzzle it out.

There was a thoughtful twist to Balin’s mouth. “Bilbo was needed in the Shire,” he said slowly. “In a way that he wasn’t needed here.”

Thorin glared at him. “You’re wrong,” he growled. “Bilbo was always needed here.”

“Was he?” Balin said mildly. “After the dragon died, it seemed like all you did was keep him out of the way. He wasn’t allowed to search for the treasure. He wasn’t allowed to help with the war preparations. You kept him by your side, only to neglect him as the sickness took hold of your mind.” Thorin opened his mouth to interrupt but Balin continued, “My point is that he wasn’t needed anymore for what he was hired to do: burglary. He was needed- still is needed- in the Shire.”

“But I do need him here!” Thorin insisted.

“Thorin, listen to me!” Balin exclaimed, clearly exasperated at Thorin’s refusal to understand. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see him. I did and I am telling you that he isn’t needed here the way he’s needed in Bag End. He was, is, and will be needed at Bag End far more than you think you need him here.”

Thorin couldn’t comprehend this. “But he thinks I don’t love him anymore,” he whispered. “And he’s wrong. I have always loved him. I will always love him and I need him here to tell him.”

Balin looked like he wanted to say something. But, instead of opening his mouth, he pursed his lips together and looked down with eyes full of pity. Thorin returned to the letter. His gaze fell on the next sentence.

_It brought me to the one who returned purpose to my life, to the light of my life, my beloved Frodo._

His heart dropped. He read back over the words but they hadn’t changed. _The light of my life, my beloved Frodo_.

“Did you bring me this to taunt me?” he said lowly.

Balin looked confused. “I’m sorry?” he asked. “I merely passed on Bilbo’s message.”

“Then does he mean to taunt me?”

“Thorin, I don’t-”

“Who is Frodo?” Thorin tore his gaze from the words before him to meet Balin’s gaze. Balin said nothing. “Balin. Who. Is. Frodo?”

Quietly, Balin said, “Frodo is a hobbit. He lives with Bilbo.”

“What did you think of him?” Thorin was rather impressed at how calm his voice sounded, even as his heart broke for a second time. _The light of my life, my beloved Frodo_. There had once been a time when Thorin had been Bilbo’s beloved. He had known that was no longer the case and yet he had still hoped… for what? For Bilbo to be as lonely as he had been all these years? No, he couldn’t wish that on Bilbo. Bilbo was wonderful, perfect, deserving of the love Thorin hadn’t been able to give him. Thorin couldn’t blame him for moving on with his life.

“I found him to be remarkably kind, very polite. Engaging, incredibly intelligent. I can see why Bilbo invited him into his home.”

Thorin swallowed thickly, past the lump in his throat. “Does he love him?” A pause. Then-

“Yes.”

Thorin closed his eyes. Nothing less than he had expected but oh, how he had hoped. The letter crumpled in his clenched fist. “Get out,” he whispered.

“Thorin,” Balin pleaded. “There’s more than what you’re reading. Things Bilbo hasn’t said, things you should hear.”

“Damn what he hasn’t said!” Thorin roared. He stood abruptly, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. “Get. Out!”

Hurriedly, Balin made for the door. As he left, he hesitated as though he wanted to say something more. But Thorin whirled around, inkwell in his hand poised to throw, and Balin ducked out. Thorin threw the inkwell after him anyway, relishing in the glass shattering against the closed door. Sobbing, he sank into the chair Balin had vacated.

Bilbo had moved on. For all his words, for all that they had meant to each other, he had moved on and Thorin had been left behind.

“I will never love again,” he whispered into the silence.

 _The light of my life, my beloved Frodo_.


	17. Thorin's Questions

“Mister Balin, might I have a moment of your time?”

Balin looked up from the reports in front of him, startled by the question. Marin stood in the doorway, hand raised to hesitantly knock on the open door. He offered the younger dwarf a brief smile and ushered him in.

“What can I do for you, laddie?” he asked as he cleared papers off a chair.

Marin looked reluctant to ask the question now that he was seated but then he blurted out, “Have I done something to offend the king?”

Balin thought he might know what this was about but he wrinkled his brow. “Not that I can think of. Do you think you’ve done something?” he asked.

“It’s only, well,” Marin bit his lip as he trailed off. He glanced up to the side. “I haven’t seen him in a week.”

“No one’s seen the king in a week,” Balin said gently. “I don’t think it’s you.” Actually, he knew it wasn’t Marin. It was Bilbo’s letter. It had only been a week since Thorin had read the letter and he’d since locked himself in his rooms, only allowing Dwalin to enter and even then it was only if Dwalin came bearing food. Not even the two princes were granted entrance and it had both of them worried. Balin didn’t know how to reassure them without giving the plan away to them and he didn’t trust that they wouldn’t accidentally tell Thorin.

“Should I go to him?” Marin asked. Balin was surprised to see that Marin didn’t look thrilled by the idea. “That’s meant to be my job as consort, isn’t it?”

“Do you not want to?” he asked, pushing gently for the answer he hoped to hear.

Marin bit his lip again, looking around as though to make sure they were still alone, and then lowly said, “I should but I don’t. The king is a wonderful man, just not the sort I could love.” He sighed and cast a desperate look at Balin. “Is that wrong?”

Balin smiled sympathetically though he was crowing gleefully on the inside. “Not at all,” he reassured him. “In fact, I don’t think you should go to Thorin at all.”

“No?”

Balin shook his head. “No. Thorin is upset because he’s received a letter from Bilbo Baggins.”

There was a look of confusion on Marin’s face, not that Balin could blame him. “The burglar?” he said hesitatingly. “From Erebor’s reclaiming?”

“The very one. There is a part to the tale that we’ve never told anyone and that is the tale of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins. You see, we all loved Bilbo but Thorin… Thorin fell hard for our hobbit and Bilbo for him. All of us thought that, after we took back Erebor, Bilbo would stay with us to become consort. But it all went wrong. He banished Bilbo after Bilbo took the Arkenstone because of the dragon sickness but when Bilbo returned to fight with him on Ravenhill, he forgave him.”

He stopped to take a breath and Marin cut in, “So if the king forgave him, why isn’t Bilbo here?”

“We wondered that for a long time,” Balin continued. “We thought Bilbo had left after the battle and it shattered Thorin, so much so that he swore to uphold Bilbo’s banishment. It wasn’t until I visited the Shire on my way to meet you that I discovered we had been wrong. Bilbo had tried to get in to see Thorin, many times, but was always turned away by the guards who thought Bilbo to be still banished. Bilbo returned to the Shire, thinking that Thorin no longer wanted anything to do with him. He rebuilt his life in the Shire, even taking in an orphaned nephew, Frodo. But he never forgot Thorin and, as I discovered on my visit, he still loves him just as Thorin has always loved Bilbo. He wrote Thorin a letter, telling him about his life in the Shire. A letter that Thorin only just read a week ago.”

“That’s what’s got Thorin so upset?” Marin asked, slightly incredulous. Balin nodded. “Why would such a letter anger the king so?”

“Because Bilbo talks at length about Frodo in this letter, telling Thorin about how much he adores him and how he cannot regret leaving Erebor because it brought him to Frodo. But he fails to mention at all that Frodo is his nephew.”

Balin fell silent as Marin puzzled over his words, putting together the pieces in his mind. Suddenly, Marin looked up with a sharp gleam in his eyes, saying, “He thinks his hobbit has fallen in love with someone else.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you’ve said nothing.”

“No.”

“Balin, why?” Marin asked confusedly.

Balin smiled ruefully and reached out to clasp Marin’s shoulder. “Because Thorin has known little of happiness in his life and I believe that he deserves this.”

Marin was silent for a long moment. He stared down at his hands, seemingly thinking over Balin’s statement. “Thorin loves the hobbit,” he said quietly. “And Bilbo Baggins loves our king.”

Balin nodded, not feeling that any further words were needed.

“I want to help.”

Balin jerked his head up. He hadn’t expected those words to come out of Marin’s mouth. “You what?” he asked.

“I want to help,” Marin repeated firmly. “I may never be able to love Thorin. But he is a good man and he deserves to be happy. If I can help bring him this happiness, then I want to.”

A slow smile spread across Balin’s face, matched by the one on Marin’s. “You should have better than this,” he said softly.

Marin merely shrugged. “I was happy once in the Blue Mountains. I can be happy there again. Tell me the plan.”

Balin leaned forward, casting a quick glance at the open door to make sure no one was lurking just outside. “Thorin already doesn’t want to marry you but he’s convinced himself that he must for the sake of Erebor. We need to talk him out of this. He needs to go to the Shire himself, see Bilbo again.”

Marin grinned and said reassuringly, “I think I can convince the king that he doesn’t want to marry me.” He stood and headed toward the door. “You know, you should think about bringing the princes in on this plan. This sounds like the kind of mischief they’d be good at.”

No, Balin still didn’t plan to tell the two Dwarven princes about his plans. He still thought that they were too likely to blurt it out to Thorin. But Legolas, on the other hand… Legolas had been the one to suggest Balin go to the Shire in the first place. That was something to consider.

Marin slipped out the door just as Thorin, of all people, was entering. “Your Majesty,” Marin murmured, bowing low. Balin stood and repeated the greeting.

“Marin,” Thorin said, inclining his head. “What brings you to Balin’s office?”

Marin sighed, looking despondent. “I was hoping for news from the Blue Mountains. I miss it terribly so.”

Thorin frowned slightly, brow furrowing. “You do?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marin admitted. “Its splendor can never compare to that of Erebor and yet, I love the simplicity of life there. Erebor is grand beyond measure, perhaps too grand for the likes of me.”

Balin hid a snicker in the sleeve of his jacket. Truthfully, Marin had settled in quite nicely in Erebor but it was clear, to Balin at least, that he was trying to convince Thorin of letting him out of the engagement. Thorin, however, didn’t seem to pick up on the deception, instead nodding thoughtfully.

“Thank you,” he said gently, “for telling me.”

Marin turned to go, adding at the last second, “It is good to see you, Your Majesty, out of your rooms.”

Thorin winced, seemingly reminded of the duties he’d been neglecting. He looked back to say something but Marin was already gone. He swallowed hard and then turned to Balin.

“I have questions about Bilbo’s letter,” he admitted grumpily.

Hiding a smile, Balin ushered him to the same chair Marin had just vacated. “What questions?” he replied.

“Why can’t he leave?” Thorin asked.

Balin was confused. When had Bilbo ever said any such thing in that letter? “What do you mean?”

Thorin removed the now well-worn letter from his pocket and pointed to a passage in it. It was clearly evident that he had spent the last week poring over it. “He said he can’t travel the way he used to. Why not?”

“Oh I believe that he can’t travel anymore because of Frodo.”

“I gathered that,” Thorin said sullenly, as though he couldn’t quite believe that Bilbo would have settled with anyone who kept him from doing what he wanted.

“Well, Frodo is quite a bit younger than Bilbo after all and I think that Bilbo believed Frodo isn’t ready to just yet. I’m sure they’ll start adventuring together soon.”

It was painfully clear from Thorin’s jolt that those weren’t the comforting words that Balin had worded them as. Well, good. He hadn’t meant them to be comforting- more a wake up call really.

“That’s another thing,” Thorin muttered. “How much younger is this Frodo anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Balin said truthfully. “I never asked his age but it is a noticeable difference.”

“Well, it’s not like Bilbo is old himself. Too young and he’d be with a child,” Thorin hissed angrily. Balin said nothing. After all, Thorin didn’t know how close he was to being right. After a moment where Thorin stared at Bilbo’s written words, he finally stood and marched back out. It appeared that questions were over.

A few hours later, Balin emerged to go in search of Legolas. He found the Elf dining with Kíli and Fíli at supper. “Your Highnesses,” he said, bowing slightly. The three looked up at him, all sporting the same look of mischief. Balin shuddered inwardly and resolved to warn Dori, as the head of Thorin’s household, that the three princes were planning another bout of trouble.

“Master Balin,” Fíli said cheerfully. “Have you come to join us?”

“No, I have not,” he said archly. “I have come to speak with Legolas.”

Fíli and Kíli exchanged slightly worried looks and Kíli hurried to say, “It wasn’t his fault.” Legolas winced. Balin sighed, wondering what Legolas had been up to now.

“He’s not in trouble. I just need to talk to him.”

“Oh,” Kíli said. He seemed lost for a moment and then plunged ahead. “What about?”

“In private, if you please,” Balin insisted.

“It’s alright, go on,” Legolas murmured.

Balin waited until both Kíli and Fíli were out of both eyesight and earshot. Then he pinned Legolas with a glare. “You knew about Frodo,” he stated flatly.

A grin spread across Legolas’ face. “Is that what this is about? I did,” he confirmed. Then he leaned forward. “What did you think?”

“An absolute dear,” Balin admitted, his voice softening as he remembered the young hobbit. “Kind and intelligent. Rather like Bilbo, in all honesty.”

“How did you find Bilbo?” Legolas asked, voice too casual to be real.

“You knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Knew that Bilbo still loved the king.”

“No,” Legolas said quietly. “I suspected but I never knew for certain. Does he?”

“He does and what’s more, Thorin still loves him.”

“And you would have me do what?” Legolas asked.

“I need your help,” Balin said easily. It was time to lay all cards out on the table. “Marin and I have a plan to bring them back together but we need you.”

“Marin, the king’s intended?” Legolas asked dubiously.

Balin could guess at his concern. He wouldn’t have believed it either if another one of the Company had come to him. But he continued, “Yes. We all want Thorin to be happy and Marin doesn’t love him. Marin is trying to talk Thorin out of the engagement. I’m going to convince Thorin to travel to the Shire. I need you though to help Thorin see that a loveless match would only be misery.”

Legolas’ eyes flickered to where Kíli was sitting with his brother and Bofur. “Very well,” he said gently. “I will do what I can. But I cannot stay for long. Lord Elrond has asked for a visit. I leave in a few days.”

“Don’t tell Kíli,” Balin added. “He isn’t the best at keeping secrets and I don’t want Thorin to know what we’re doing.” Legolas laughed at that but it was clear that he agreed with Balin.

“What of the dwarves?” he asked. “This whole betrothal was to rebuild the dwarves’ confidence in Thorin. Won’t it be ruined if he ends it?”

“Thorin won’t be the one breaking it off,” Balin replied. “That job will fall to Marin. As for the rest of it, Dori is quite the gossip and Thorin has a lot of questions about Bilbo. I’m sure I can arrange for Dori to overhear something. There is nothing we Dwarves like so much as a doomed romance.”

Balin was indeed correct. It wasn’t hard at all to arrange for Dori to hear Thorin confessing his love for Bilbo Baggins. Now he’d come once, Thorin often stopped by Balin’s office to ask more questions- “He said he was lonely. Do you think he was lonely?” “Why weren’t the other hobbits pleased to see him return?” “What does he mean that Thranduil named him an Elf-friend?” Their conversations rarely started off talking about Bilbo’s relationship with Frodo but, sooner or later, it would eventually turn to the two hobbits. From there, it was a simple matter to call Dori to the office with some sort of drink. It only took two attempts before Balin heard the telltale gasp of Dori standing outside the door right as Thorin was complaining, once again, about how he had sent Bilbo away without saying anything. The desolate Thorin heard nothing but Balin glanced up just in time to see Dori’s shadow scurrying down the hall.

Within a day, it seemed the entire mountain knew that their king was madly in love with his hobbit burglar who had stolen his heart along with the Arkenstone. That he ached to return to the Shire and sweep Bilbo Baggins off his feet. That he had no desire to marry Lord Marin of the Blue Mountains. That he was only wedding Lord Marin out of the duty he felt he owed his people.

Just like that, the tide of public opinion changed overwhelmingly in Thorin’s favor. He was no longer the idiotic ruler who had agreed to leave Moria to the balrog on the whims of a wizard. Now, he was Thorin, their beloved king who was willing to break his own heart for the good of his people.

Who could resist a story like that?

As Balin had noted, there was nothing the Dwarves of Erebor liked more than a love story, especially a doomed one like the tale of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins. Such a story captured their hearts, enflamed their imaginations, and it wasn’t long before the mountain was stirring with the hope that someday, King Thorin could be reunited with his love.

Thorin’s Company, he knew, was just as excited as the rest of the mountain. Fíli and Kíli were both preparing to leave for the Shire after Legolas had expressed a vague desire to see Bilbo again only a day before he left for Rivendell at the behest of Lord Elrond. Bofur wasn’t far behind, as he had grown so much closer to Bilbo than the rest of them, and where Bofur went, Bifur and Bombur followed. As for the rest of the Company, Balin knew how much they all missed Bilbo. It wouldn’t take much prodding to get them out the door.

Not that Thorin knew any of this. Lovesick and devastated as he was, he knew little other than Bilbo’s letter and the words Balin had to say about it. Privately, Balin thought that it was good Thorin’s counsel supported him so much or else he was sure that Thorin’s enemies would have been able to push anything they wanted into place.

He was reading over reports of the latest rebellion Dwalin had quashed earlier that week when Thorin next came to him. It had been an easy matter to quell the rumblings of treason. What with the support Thorin had garnered from the populace, Dwalin had had little to do. Thorin’s supporters had done most of the work.

“Balin,” Thorin whispered as he entered. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

Balin looked up to see Thorin’s ashen face. In an instant, he was out of his chair, guiding Thorin by the arm to sit. He busied about, making a cup of tea to set in front of his friend. Only once Thorin had drunk half the cup did he say, “Tell you what isn’t true?”

“I’ve been thinking over it for weeks,” Thorin muttered. “What he wrote. But I keep coming to the same conclusion. I should have gone looking for him. He came for me and I sent him away.”

Sadly, Balin knew that he couldn’t assuage Thorin’s fears. He bowed his head. “Bilbo told me only a little but Gandalf told me everything,” he said. “It was a misunderstanding. When we told Dain what had happened before the battle, we told him that Bilbo had been banished. We didn’t realize the guards had overheard and believed it to still hold true. They wouldn’t let Bilbo in to see you.”

Thorin groaned, hanging his head in his hands. It tore at Balin’s heart to see his friend so anguished but there was nothing he could say to make it better.

“This is my fault,” Thorin whispered. “I pushed him away.”

Balin didn’t know what to say. Thorin wasn’t wrong but he didn’t think that he needed to hear more recriminations. The time for that was long past. The only person who now had the right to berate Thorin lay thousands of miles to the west.

Thorin spent the rest of the afternoon in Balin’s office. Balin was sure not to let him drink himself into a stupor but he was content to let him mope in the room for as long as he wanted.

At one point, Thorin raised his head from where it had been resting on his arms. “Fíli came to me this morning. He wanted to ask if I would allow him and Kíli to leave for the Shire to visit Bilbo. Said that they were planning to visit Rivendell as Legolas would remain in Rivendell longer than he’d expected and they wanted to extend their trip,” he said, absently drawing patterns in the whorls of Balin’s desk.

“What did you tell them?” Balin asked, still perusing his reports as though he didn’t care what Thorin’s answer was.

“I told him that they were welcome to visit Bilbo. He had been their friend too. Then he asked if I would go with them. Like I could, like what I did fifteen years ago meant nothing. I can’t hurt Bilbo like that, not now that he’s… moved on.”

Balin reached out to clasp his friend’s shoulder. He knew that Bilbo would be beyond delighted to see Thorin again but he couldn’t tell Thorin that. He could, however, push him in the right direction.

“Didn’t Bilbo’s letter say that he wanted to see you again?” he asked gently.

Thorin snorted derisively though there was a speculative gleam in his eyes. “He said he wanted to hear from me again. I can’t do that, not after what I did to him.”

“Bilbo has chosen to forgive you, Thorin,” Balin replied. “Don’t you think you owe him the dignity of his choice?”

Abruptly, Thorin stood. “I will not impose myself upon Bilbo again,” he hissed. “Not when it is someone else he has brought into his home.” Without another word, he was gone.

Balin sighed. It was all he could do for now. Fíli and Kíli planned to leave at the week’s end. That gave him four days to convince Thorin to go with them.

The news that the princes were leaving for the Shire spread like dragon fire through the mountain. Everywhere Balin went, he heard whispers of the prince’s plan. Most seemed to think that they were going to convince Bilbo to return to the Lonely Mountain. Balin knew all too well though that the only person who could convince Bilbo to return to Erebor was Thorin. It was imperative that Thorin go with them.

It quickly became evident that, although it was only Fíli and Kíli who had asked permission to go, the rest of the Company also planned to travel to Bag End. Even Dwalin, who so often felt that his place was by his king, had decided to visit Bilbo. This surprised Balin but Dwalin claimed that the rest of the king’s guard would be sufficient to protect the king for a few months.

Everything was starting to fall into place. Now if only Thorin would do his part and cooperate. Balin had been by the king’s rooms a few times since their last conversation but Thorin had refused him entrance.

With only one day left before the Company left for the Shire, it was finally Kíli who managed to sneak Balin into Thorin’s rooms while Fíli distracted his uncle with a nonexistent problem in the mines on his way back from supper. Balin only had to wait a few minutes before Thorin threw off Fíli and stalked back to his room.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Balin said the instant the door opened.

For a moment, Thorin looked like he was considering turning around and leaving but Dwalin shoved him inside and then locked the door behind him.

“Perhaps it’s because I haven’t wanted to speak with you,” Thorin said sullenly.

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Balin acknowledged. “But tomorrow the Company leaves for Bag End and I think you should go with them.”

“You do, do you?” Thorin chuckled darkly.

“Yes,” Balin said firmly. “I do. I think it would be good for you and I think it’s the least you owe Bilbo after what you put him through.”

“Tell me, Balin,” Thorin demanded. “What does Bilbo think about my marriage?”

“He was shocked when I told him,” Balin said honestly. “And I think more than a little disappointed.”

Thorin huffed, an angry light appearing in his eyes. “What, because it’s acceptable for him to move on but not me?”

“Thorin, there’s more to what’s going on here than what you think. Things you don’t know, things Bilbo hasn’t told you.”

“Like what?” Thorin asked, turning a raised eyebrow on his advisor.

“It’s not my place to tell you. It’s Bilbo’s.”

Thorin turned away. “Of course it is,” he said through gritted teeth. He sounded irritated, not that Balin could blame him.

“I just don’t want you to do anything rash.”

“Like running off to the Shire?”

Balin sighed deeply. Thorin was always stubborn. Why would this be any different? Yet he’d hoped that Thorin would listen to reason at least this once. “No,” he said. “Like deciding to throw away, again, your one shot at happiness. Thorin, you’ve been thinking about running away to the Shire for fifteen years. It might be the least rash decision you could possibly make.”

“Tell me, Balin,” Thorin said, turning back to his friend. “Bilbo says that he loves this Frodo. You seem to think that he still loves me. So tell me this, does he love Frodo more than he loves me?”

Balin opened his mouth to reply but Thorin held up a hand to forestall him. “The truth, Balin. I think I am at least owed that.”

Balin regarded him with sad eyes. “Yes, he does.”

Thorin nodded sharply. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He waved a hand, motioning for Balin to leave. Silently, Balin did so, feeling that there was no more damage he could do to the king.

The next morning, he stood at the front gate watching as the Company loaded the last of their gear onto the ponies. They were dawdling deliberately, clearly waiting for Thorin, but he was nowhere to be seen and, at this point, Balin was convinced that he would remain scarce until after the Company had left.

Balin, personally, had no intentions of going with the Company. After all, he had just seen Bilbo only a few months prior. Besides, someone needed to be there to pick up the pieces when Thorin finally realized what a big mistake he had made.

Finally, the Company could wait no longer. They climbed into their saddles and were just beginning to set out. Then-

“Wait!”

Almost as one, all heads turned toward the depths of the mountain. Thorin rode out into the light, already astride his own pony. He ran an assessing gaze over the assembled Company.

Slowly a smile spread across his face as he said, “I’m coming with you.”


	18. The Mountain Pass

It was early, far earlier than Thorin would have expected for someone to be knocking on his chamber door. Thorin wasn’t asleep. How could he be, when the Company was leaving for the Shire later that morning? Instead, he paced the room, reminding himself of all the reasons he couldn’t leave with them. He was the king. He was engaged to be married. He couldn’t simply abandon the mountain to go traipsing across Middle Earth. He didn’t deserve Bilbo’s forgiveness. He couldn’t impose on Bilbo’s rebuilt life. Bilbo had clearly moved on.

But oh how he wanted to go. He wanted desperately to march up to Bag End, swoop his burglar into his arms, and steal him away from the hobbit that had tried to claim him. Thorin wanted to beg Bilbo for his forgiveness, wanted to kiss him senseless, lay him down on his bed and-

Well, he wanted.

Not that he could do any of that. He had no claim on any part of Bilbo’s life, not anymore. He needed to remember that, before he did something foolish like saddle his pony.

And now someone was knocking. Frustrated at the interruption to his musings, he swung the door open, prepared to tell Balin to leave him alone again. But it wasn’t Balin.

He was surprised to find Marin standing there, slowly lowering his fist. It wasn’t seemly for a betrothed couple to spend the night together (though he knew that plenty did) and he would have thought Marin would have more sense than to ruin the king’s propriety. The mountain had eyes and ears. Someone would see and someone would tell. Thorin knew well that the favor of his people had wavered over the last year and he couldn’t risk losing it again with such a transgression.

“What hour is it?” he asked gruffly, thinking that perhaps it was later than he’d thought and it wasn’t so unseemly after all.

“Just after the midnight hour,” Marin replied.

Nope, far too early for Marin to be at his bedroom door. He narrowed his eyes and moved to shut the door. Quick as a flash, Marin stuck his foot in the way of the door.

“Tell me about Bilbo Baggins.”

Thorin paused. Out of anything Marin could have said, he would never have expected that. He ceased his attempt to close the door and glared suspiciously. “Why?” he asked.

Marin met his gaze evenly and said, “Because I wish to know about the one who holds the heart of the king.”

Ah.

He held the door open wider, a silent invitation to enter. Without bothering to see if Marin was following, he walked back into his sitting room. He had allowed the fire to die down, kept warm by his pacing, but now he knelt to coax it back to life. Behind him, the door snicked shut. He heard Marin settling into one of the armchairs. He didn’t turn to face him just yet.

“It was Gandalf’s idea,” he began, “to hire a burglar. I saw no need to. I planned to march on Erebor without one, thinking that perhaps Nori could steal the Arkenstone from the dragon, but then the Company numbered only thirteen. I allowed Gandalf to choose our burglar.” He stopped and glanced back at Marin. “He chose Bilbo Baggins.”

He continued to speak, telling Marin about how he had resented the Hobbit, how he’d felt that Bilbo had no place with him, how he’d heard Elrond belittle him while Bilbo stood right there and said nothing. He told him about the words he’d spoken in the Misty Mountains and how he’d thought that Bilbo had left them, only to come back because he didn’t think it was right that they didn’t have a home when he did. He spoke about Bilbo’s actions to defend him against Azog and about growing closer to the hobbit before they reached Mirkwood. He told Marin about the events in Mirkwood, the devastation he’d felt when he’d thought Bilbo lost to the spiders, the fear that he would never see Bilbo again, rather than worrying about reaching the mountain on time, and about how he’d realized he was in love with the hobbit when Bilbo had smiled that crooked grin of his. Then he talked about the moments they’d stolen during the battle with Smaug, how he’d promised that, once it was all over, they would talk.

“But we didn’t,” he said hoarsely. He glanced at the hourglass on the mantel. It was now nearly four hours after midnight. Dawn would soon be approaching, bringing with it the Company’s departure. “Instead I fell prey to the same sickness that claimed my grandfather and father before me. I would have killed Bilbo if Gandalf hadn’t stopped me and I did banish him from my sight. I would never have blamed him if he’d left me to my fate and yet he risked his own life to save mine on Ravenhill. We spoke and I forgave him, only to banish him again when I awoke because I thought he had left me.

“Now he writes me this letter and I’m told it was a mistake, a misunderstanding that kept him from my sight. He calls me dearest, tells me that he misses me and then speaks about the hobbit he has accepted into his home, given his love to, and I have no right to rage because I am betrothed.”

He fell silent, thinking again of the Company’s departure. He longed to go with them, he did, but how could he be welcome in Bag End after the things he’d done?

There was silence for a long moment and then- “Why are you still here?”

Thorin’s head snapped up and he stared at Marin. “I- what?” he asked, confused beyond measure. He hadn’t expected this reaction. Anger, yes. Jealousy, maybe. But this sort of sad, quiet acceptance? Never.

Marin slipped from his chair to kneel in front of him. He took Thorin’s hands in his and then he said, “Thorin, you and I both know we will never fall in love. You’ve been given a gift here, a chance to make things right. You need to go. Let yourself be happy.” There was an urgent, pleading note in his voice.

“You can’t mean this,” Thorin murmured.

Marin smiled gently and he slipped the mithril bracelet off his wrist. He pressed it into Thorin’s hands. “I do mean it,” he said. “I release you from your oath.”

Thorin gaped at him. Here it was, this permission to be selfish for once in his long life. But did he even remember what it meant to be selfish? Slowly, he curled his hand around the mithril bracelet, his mind fixed now on the coat of mithril that he’d given Bilbo fifteen years ago. Now that had been a kingly betrothal gift. This bracelet was paltry in comparison and he wondered if he’d chosen it for that reason, knowing that Marin would never be able to replace Bilbo.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized.

“Don’t,” Marin replied. He held up a packed knapsack. Thorin recognized it as the one from under his bed. “Go find your burglar. Win him back.”

Slowly, a smile spread across Thorin’s face. “Thank you,” he breathed, grabbing the pack. He all but ran out of the room, sprinting for the stables. At this early hour, there were few people awake and they were all startled to see their king running through the halls. A couple called out after him but he waved them off, mind set on his goal.

Less than an hour later, he was saddled and ready. He led the pony out to the front of the mountain. He was just in time. The Company was preparing to leave, all but loyal Balin who had decided to remain behind in support of his king. “Wait!” he called. As one, the Company halted and turned back. He rode out from under the shadow of the mountain, assessing each of them individually. He noted the ecstatic grins on Kíli and Fíli’s faces, the reassurance in Dwalin’s eyes.

Grinning broadly, he announced, “I’m coming with you.”

Kíli and Bofur whooped. Fíli exhaled loudly, having not looked forward to leading the Company in the absence of his uncle. Balin though gave Thorin a private smile and said, “You won’t regret this, Thorin.”

Thorin sniffed. “I should hope not. Some come-lately hobbit couldn’t measure up to the King Under the Mountain.” His words were bold but Balin recognized the nervous glint in his gaze and he nodded comfortingly.

“Of course not,” he agreed soothingly.

Thorin reached down to clasp his forearm. “Thank you, my friend,” he whispered, “for helping me see reason.”

He turned his pony and urged her into a gentle trot. The rest of the Company followed suit and so Thorin Oakenshield began his long awaited return to the Shire.

The days on the road to Mirkwood passed quickly. His nephews were curious to know what had changed Thorin’s mind, indeed what had even prompted this trip in the first place. Thorin saw no reason why he should not tell them that he went to the Shire to win Bilbo’s heart back from the hobbit who’d unfairly stolen it and so he showed them Bilbo’s letter.

As he’d expected, Fíli was furious that Bilbo had moved on when Thorin had been in such torment. He wasn’t wholly convinced that Thorin should even return now, thinking it best to leave Bilbo to his machinations, but Kíli… Kíli perhaps, out of the entire Company, best understood his plight, having gone to the Wilds of the north to claim the heart of one elf and returned with another, and Kíli wholeheartedly supported him.

He left the boys to their squabbling, knowing that Kíli would eventually talk his brother into supporting Thorin’s quest, and joined Bofur. For these long fifteen years, Bofur had remained Thorin’s emissary to the Mirkwood Elves and he wished now to know the state of their relations. They were traveling to Thranduil’s realm after all. Bofur was more than pleased to update him on their affairs with the elves and reminded him of the parts of the peace treaty that needed to be reworked in the coming months. Thorin agreed to spend no more than three days in Mirkwood, reworking the treaty with Thranduil before he would send for one of his councilmembers.

“I’d like to get to the Shire before Bilbo weds Frodo,” he reminded Bofur sharply.

As a point of fact, they were only in Mirkwood for two days. Thranduil was rather more accommodating than usual. Thorin suspected this was due to the Kíli’s presence, as Thranduil seemed to have developed, if not a fondness, then at least a tolerance for the dwarf his son had fallen in love with.

Thranduil drew Thorin aside as they were preparing to leave. “As you know, Legolas is still a prince of Mirkwood. He still has duties to his own people,” he said quietly.

“Of course,” Thorin said brusquely, eager to be on their way. “Have we been keeping him in the mountain for too long?”

Thranduil raised a haughty brow. “As though you could keep Legolas anywhere he didn’t wish to be,” he replied. Thorin shrugged, conceding to the point. He’d noticed that the elven prince was every bit as willful as his own nephews. “But you know that I have sent Legolas to Rivendell to speak with Lord Elrond. He wrote back that the mountain passes are becoming less safe. Goblins roam freely, killing where they once took prisoners. I have offered you the use of my elves as guides through the forest. I would offer them now as guards through the mountain pass.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” Thorin asked, shock too clear in his tone to be teasing. “Or are you worried for me?”

Thranduil scoffed. “Foolishness does not become you, King Under the Mountain. Legolas would never speak to me again should Kíli not return,” he admitted. But a genuine smile lurked at the corners of his ever-present smirk and Thorin returned the gesture gratefully.

“I don’t know that I will accept your offer but I will bear your words in mind,” he promised.

Thorin did not keep the elven guards with them. He mentioned Thranduil’s offer to the party but they all thought it unnecessary. Goblins, even bloodthirsty ones, were no match for a party of Dwarven warriors. They left Thranduil’s guides at the borders of the forest and continued west. There was a brief discussion of visiting Beorn but it was ultimately decided that such a visit would take far too much time. Besides, with neither Gandalf nor Bilbo there as a buffer, Thorin was hesitant to take his Company into the halls of a known dwarf-hater when it could be so easily avoided.

Instead, they continued straight into the mountains. Thorin had originally hoped to also pass by Rivendell as he had no desire to enter the halls of Lord Elrond, still remembering the mistrust the elf had placed in him all those years before, but Kíli nearly revolted.

“You only just saw Legolas a few weeks ago,” Thorin protested.

“So?” Kíli returned furiously. “If it were Bilbo there, you’d have no problems with going.”

“Bilbo’s not there and I will have no further delays in our journey.”

Kíli snarled but Thorin was determined to get his way on this one. “We’re not going,” he stated firmly. “That’s final.”

Of course, he had contended without the fury of Kíli and the support of Fíli. They made Thorin’s life utter misery on the trails, dragging their feet, taking hours each morning to pack up, and complaining loudly that they were tired and wanted a break every few minutes. Eventually, Dwalin pulled Thorin aside.

“We can’t keep going like this,” he muttered. “We’ll attract unwanted attention. Bilbo’s waited fifteen years. He can wait a few more days.”

Thorin sighed heavily. He knew it couldn’t truly hurt to stop in Rivendell but oh how he didn’t want to. He certainly didn’t want to have to swallow his pride and agree to change course. He turned back to the rest of the Company, all waiting to hear what he’d say. “We’ll go to Rivendell,” he said sullenly.

Kíli stifled a triumphant yell.

Over the last fifteen years, Lord Elrond had sent scouting parties into the Misty Mountains to map out the locations of goblin hideouts, maps that he’d then sent on to his neighbors on the far side of the mountains. Thorin had received one six months ago. He used it (well, Dwalin used it; Thorin was incapable of leading them anywhere without getting them lost) now to locate safe, goblin-free caves in the mountain passes.

That wasn’t to say that they never saw any goblins. Thranduil hadn’t been joking when he’d said that the goblins were becoming more open about their actions. The Company had come across small goblin parties three times. Each encounter had been little more than a skirmish but goblins could be loud. While their cries hadn’t attracted attention yet, Thorin was worried that their luck would run out.

They were two days from Rivendell when it began to storm. Thorin, remembering the losses they’d nearly suffered the last time they were caught in a thunderstorm in the Misty Mountains, called for an immediate halt. Dwalin located a large cave that Lord Elrond had marked as goblin-free and they made camp there.

Fíli had taken a knife slash to his upper arm during their last skirmish. Thorin didn’t think it looked bad but he also couldn’t forget Kíli’s poisoned injuries during their escape from Mirkwood. He ordered Fíli to rest and had Óin take a look at the injured arm.

It was as Bofur and Bombur were beginning to build a fire that Kíli suddenly perked up. His head jerked toward the front of the cave and he hissed, “Hush.” A wary silence fell over the group. Now that it was quiet, Thorin could hear what Kíli had- low, guttural voices muttering in a foul language.

“Goblins,” he mouthed to the others.

There was a sharp inhalation from one of the others- Thorin thought it might have been Ori- but everyone was standing, preparing themselves, even Fíli and Óin. Thorin motioned at Nori. Nori nodded once and then slipped silently out into the rain. As they waited, Dwalin made sure that everyone was out of sight of the cave’s entrance. He positioned himself and Kíli at the opening, ready to attack anything that came through.

A moment later, Nori slipped back inside. Using the hand signals he’d come up with for such an event, he signed that there were thirty three goblins and that they’d already caught wind of the dwarves’ scents. There would be no avoiding this battle.

Thorin sighed. Ordinarily, he would have thought there’d be no problem with fighting more than thirty goblins. But Óin was old and Fíli was injured.

Still, he futilely hoped that the goblin party would pass by if the Company remained quiet. Of course, they could never be so lucky. The lore said that goblins had been bred to be the perfect hunters, complete with incredible sense of smell. Whether or not they’d been bred in such a way didn’t change the fact that they could indeed pick up the scent of nearly anything, no matter how faint.

Fortunately, however, no one had ever accused goblins of intelligence and so it came as no surprise when the goblins party rushed into the cave without even considering the possibility of an ambush.

For a moment, the only sound was that of the storm raging outside. There was a moment, suspended in time, as the last of the goblins entered and slowly began to turn. He met Thorin’s gaze, eyes widening slightly. A dull roar pounded in Thorin’s ears, drowning out all other sounds. In that hushed, still moment, he closed his eyes for the briefest pause, centering himself. The moment passed. He opened his eyes, focusing on the goblin.

Then he lunged forward, shouting, “Barak Khazâd!”

Behind him, he knew the rest of the Company was answering his cry, leaping forward to follow him, but he was focused on the foul creature in front of him. Startled as it was, the goblin had no chance to reply before Thorin swung Orcrist, separating his head neatly from his shoulders. He turned to face the next goblin but one of Kíli’s arrows sprouted from its chest and the creature fell. Thorin took a second to nod his thanks before he whirled back into the fray.

The battle was quick but bloody. Thorin was drenched in both the black blood of the goblins he cut down and his own bright red blood. Outnumbered as the dwarves were, it was guaranteed that they would be injured. Thorin had no doubts that his Company would prevail but he was less sure that they would still be well enough to travel. It was unwise to linger in these battlegrounds. But it wasn’t a difficult fight and through the battle haze, he could hear Fíli and Kíli bantering with each other and Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur keeping score of their kills.

Another arrow felled one of his opponents. He yelled, “Thank you, Kíli! I can kill my own.”

“Wasn’t me!” Kíli yelped, ducking a fierce swing from one of the orcs.

Thorin stilled, suddenly cold. But then a familiar voice said, “It was me.” Legolas darted by him, a long knife appearing in his hand. He slashed out and Kíli’s goblin crumpled, clutching at its chest. Thorin didn’t know where the elf had come from or what he was doing there but he couldn’t muster the energy to be ungrateful.

With Legolas there, the battle was over that much quicker and it wasn’t long before the last goblin fell. Kíli moved to embrace the elf but Legolas held up a hand to stop him. He fixed his gaze on Thorin and said, “I’ve come to warn you.”

“Of what?” Thorin asked.

“A party of orcs.” Thorin gestured at the surrounding creatures but Legolas only shook his head. “A much larger party, nearly a hundred. We received word they were hunting you, planning to intercept you between here and Imladris. Lord Elrond has sent aid but they won’t get here in time. They sent me ahead.”

Thorin sighed, wishing wistfully that such creatures could be wiped from Middle Earth, that the roads were once again safe. “So we stand and fight.” There was an answering growl from Dwalin.

Legolas looked horrified. “No,” he stated. “We run. This is not a battle you can win, Thorin.”

“We’ll just meet them on the trail then. Is that your suggestion?”

“There is another trail,” Legolas said, handing Thorin a map. “It’s treacherous, it won’t be easy in the storm, but it’s well-hidden.”

Dwalin took the map from Thorin’s hand. “This is little more than a game trail,” he pointed out.

Legolas glanced briefly at him but he continued, “There is a place where the trail opens up, a small valley. Lord Elrond has planned to meet us there. It’s half a day’s journey from here. But we have to move quickly.”

“Is this the famed wisdom of the elves then?” Dwalin snapped. “To run and hide when we should stand and fight? I say we stay here. We can meet them head-on. We have the advantage here.”

Thorin was inclined to agree with him. It was not in his nature to cower away. Then Legolas said quietly, “Tell me, King Thorin, what brings you so far from Erebor?”

He glowered at the elf’s knowing expression. He knew that Legolas was right, that he shouldn’t risk the opportunity of seeing Bilbo again for the sake of his pride, but it galled him to admit such a thing.

“We cannot linger here,” Legolas said urgently. “What is your decision?”

“Uncle?” Kíli asked.

Thorin turned to meet the worried expression on his nephew’s face and he sighed. Once again, he had foolishly taken his heirs, his sister-sons, into danger. Dís really was going to kill him if she ever got hold of him.

“We will meet with Lord Elrond,” he said firmly. There were a few grumbles but he nodded for Legolas to lead the way. As the elf was leading them out of the cave, he held up a hand for silence. Thorin wanted to tell him that they knew to be quiet in this instance but it seemed like he was listening for something.

“They’re close,” he murmured. “We have to hurry.”

He ushered them out, stopping Kíli as he was passing him. “Can you take the back?” Thorin heard him ask. Kíli nodded firmly. Legolas gave him a quick smile and then darted forward again, passing Bofur at the front.

He led them further up the mountain to a pass so narrow they had to walk in a line. Thorin was worried about the narrowness, a worry Legolas seemed to share, but they plunged forward. They moved as quickly as they dared, bordered by a sheer cliff on one side of the path and a two hundred foot drop on the other. Thorin could tell that Legolas didn’t think they were moving fast enough as he kept glancing toward the back of the Company. Thorin supposed he could simply be worried about Kíli but he didn’t think so.

They kept going for hours, breaking for neither water nor rest. In the deluge, it was rough going. They all slipped several times. Even Legolas stumbled once. It was such an unusual occurrence that Thorin almost thought the orcs had caught up to them and that Legolas had been shot. But he righted himself and they continued on.

They weren’t far from the valley Lord Elrond planned to meet them in when Legolas abruptly stopped. His face snapped back to where Kíli stood, bow ready. His eyes widened slightly. In the sudden silence, Thorin could now hear what the elf had heard over their footsteps- the softest clanking of iron weapons.

He saw Legolas swallow, seeming to come to a decision. He handed the map to Bofur behind him and said, “Lead them on.” Then he leapt up, catching a near invisible handhold, defying gravity to run across the cliff face and swing down on the other side of Kíli.

“No,” Kíli started to say, grasping Legolas’ plan in an instant. “I’ll-”

“Amrâlimê,” Legolas said gently. “I’m faster than you. Go.”

Kíli looked like he wanted to do nothing less but Legolas lightly shoved him and he stumbled back into the arms of his brother. Fíli held him fast and nodded once at the elf. He took a firmer hold of Kíli, dragging him back towards the rest of the Company.

Thorin took a last look at the bowman, vision blurring from the rain- he refused to admit to tears for the son of Thranduil. Beside him, Dwalin looked torn but then he sighed heavily. He bodily lifted Kíli over him and placed him between himself and Thorin, then did the same to Fíli.

“Thorin,” he said. “It’s been an honor serving you but I think I’ll stay.”

“Dwalin?” Thorin asked.

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on that one,” Dwalin continued, jerking a thumb at Legolas. “I look after the royal family. It’s my duty as a dwarf, your guard, and your friend.”

Thorin could no longer deny the blurry vision. He reached across Fíli and Kíli to grasp Dwalin’s forearm. “Mahal be with you, my friend,” he murmured, wishing him luck.

Dwalin grinned fiercely. “And with you.” He shooed Thorin and the two princes away, turning to Legolas. Barely over the storm, as they were hurrying away, Thorin heard him say, “Let’s hunt some orc.”

They hadn’t moved far before Thorin’s hair stood on end. He turned back, praying that this wouldn’t be a repeat of fifteen years before. But the Valar did not seem to be amenable to his prayers.

Lightning struck the mountainside close to where they’d left Dwalin and Legolas. There was a loud crack as it split the rocks in two- and then a low rumble growing in volume to a roar. Thorin watched in horror as the mountainside crumbled away, leaving nothing but a barren waste in its wake. Kíli screamed, a wordless howl of anguish that tore at Thorin’s heart.

Kíli attempted to break free of Fíli’s grip but Thorin reached across and grabbed him before he could run off. “We can’t,” he said gruffly. Kíli whirled to face him, eyes flashing in grief and fury. “We can’t,” Thorin repeated more gently. “If the orcs weren’t killed, if they broke through. Legolas wanted you safe. Don’t you think you owe it to him to get to safety?”

Letting out a single sob, Kíli started to protest but Fíli wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Uncle’s right. We’ll come back for them, Kí. Goodbye for now, not forever.”

Kíli still looked like he wanted to refuse but he let Fíli lead him away. The Company stumbled down the path, barely aware of what they were doing, shocked by what had happened.

Some time later, they tripped into the valley Legolas had spoken of. Sure enough, there was a large contingent of elves grimly waiting, all armed on horseback and perfectly poised. There was a soft stirring at their appearance and then one of them rode forward. Thorin recognized him as Elrond’s fussy steward, Lindir.

“Greetings,” Lindir said formally. “I am-”

“I know who you are,” Thorin growled.

Lindir’s eyes narrowed. “Legolas said there would be twelve of you. Yet I count eleven. Where are he and Legolas?”

Thorin opened his mouth to speak but found himself choking on the words. It was Bofur who said, “They stayed behind to hold off the orcs.” He swallowed heavily, seeming to get past the lump in his throat. “They fell.”

There was a sharp inhalation from one of the other elves. “Fell?” he asked.

Thorin turned to face him, distantly noting that he resembled Elrond in the structure of his face, perhaps a son. “Lightning struck the mountain,” he said. His voice was barely louder than a whisper but in the stunned silence, it carried across the valley. “Brought down the trail- and everyone on it.”

The elf swung down from his horse and hurried to grip Thorin’s arms. “How far?” he asked urgently, lightly shaking him.

Thorin couldn’t answer him, having no idea how far they’d trudged. Soundlessly, he gaped. The elf let him go, frustrated. He looked back at Lindir, who immediately began shaking his head.

“Elladan, no. Your father-”

“My father would say the same thing,” Elladan said smoothly. He glanced over at a third elf, clearly his twin. “We have to look for Legolas. He’d look for Elrohir or me. He’d look for any of us. He’d even look for you.”

Lindir’s lips pursed. Thorin had to duck his head to hide a smile. Still looking down, he asked lowly, “And what of Dwalin?”

Elladan nodded worriedly. “I will look for your friend.”

Thorin straightened. “I’ll go with you then.”

But he staggered before he could take more than a step. Elladan reached out, steadying him. “No,” he said, motioning someone over. “You’re injured and weary. Stay here. Allow our healers to look after you.” Thorin tried to wave the healer off but he stumbled again.

“Uncle,” Fíli murmured. “Stay, please.”

At his nephew’s words, Thorin sighed and sank down beside Kíli, who was mouthing soundlessly to himself. He could make out the words “courage” and “heart” but wasn’t sure what it could mean. Satisfied, Elladan turned and disappeared into the sheets of rain.

Thorin lost track of how long they’d been waiting for Elladan’s return. The night crept on, giving rise to the dawn. The rain faltered before allowing weak sunlight to filter through the clouds. After Thorin did so, the rest of the Company save Kíli allowed the elven healers to examine and bandage their wounds. Kíli was too busy pacing to allow himself to be looked at.

Fíli and Thorin both watched him worriedly. “I’ve never seen him like this before,” Fíli whispered. “If Legolas is-” He cut off, clearly not wanting to finish the thought. Thorin silently agreed with him. He shuddered to think about Kíli would take such news. He thought about saying something, anything, to calm Kíli but he didn’t want to lie to him. And then Elladan returned.

Alone.

Kíli took one look at him and staggered back, hand pressed to his mouth. Fíli only just barely managed to catch him before he collapsed.

“I’m sorry,” Elladan said mournfully. “I looked but the avalanche took anything in its path.” He held something small out to Kíli. “All I could find was this.”

On the other side of the small valley, Thorin couldn’t quite tell what it was but as it glinted in the pale light, he rather thought he could guess- a silver bead with emerald leaves.


	19. Apologies and Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> As Christmas is fast approaching, I have an announcement to make: I made a deal with @ivyraven where I get to write as much angst for this story as I want (which I'm going to do anyway) and, in return, I'll write six short stories set in the Such Hope as This universe (which is really just an excuse for me to write a few scenes that I've wanted to do for a few months)- and I'll let you guys request three of them! I've posted a few guidelines below. If you're interested in requesting a story, read through them and then let me know in the comments what you'd like to see. I'm only going to take the first three requests for this round but I'll make a note of the others and I'll work on those at a later date.
> 
> 1\. Nothing that occurs after what's already been posted.  
> 2\. Nothing rated either mature or explicit.  
> 3\. Nothing lengthy  
> 4\. I won't write anything that I'm planning to address at a later time or include in another story (like an adventure of Kíli's in the north since I'm planning a companion story about that) but I'll let you know if you pick something like that so you can choose something else.
> 
> I'll post what people have requested below as I start receiving requests.

It was a disconsolate group that trudged into Rivendell two days later. Kíli was utterly devastated, beside himself with grief. That wasn’t to say that the others weren’t also grieving. The loss of Dwalin had hit them all hard. But Kíli had lost more than a friend that day. The love of his life was gone. Thorin had only tried once to comfort his nephew. Kíli had merely looked at him.

“Will you be excited to see Bilbo again?” he asked. His voice was without reproach but Thorin had still drawn back as though stung. He left Kíli alone after that.

By the time they reached the Hidden Valley, word had already arrived of the tragedy that had occurred in the Misty Mountains. They were greeted by Lord Elrond and his daughter, Arwen. Thorin barely had enough time to acknowledge the sheer beauty that was Arwen before she whisked Kíli away from them, promising him comfort, rest, and solitude.

Thorin stared after them blankly, only coming out of his reverie when Elrond moved in front of him. He blinked, trying to clear his head, and then looked up. “Walk with me,” Elrond requested, though it sounded more like a command. “I need to speak with you.”

He followed the elf away from the rest of the company, leaving them to find shelter where they could. They walked in silence for a time as Elrond led them away from the buildings and homes and into the trees of the bordering forest. It was only then, under the cover of the trees, that Elrond began to talk.

“I have sent elves into the mountains to recover them,” he began, halting his walk and facing the dwarf. Thorin didn’t need to ask whom he was referring to and he bowed his head. “Your friend, I will return to you.”

“His name was Dwalin,” Thorin said gruffly, tears stinging his eyes.

Elrond inclined his head slightly in concession. “But Legolas…” He paused and then started over. “I have not yet sent word to Thranduil of his son’s death. It is not a task that I look forward to.” He stopped again. Thorin didn’t think it common for the elf to be so lost for words but he didn’t know what he was struggling to say. “It is not common for elves to be buried in stone the way the dwarves do.”

All of a sudden, Thorin knew exactly what Elrond was trying to say. “You want to know if I will insist on Legolas’ burial in Erebor,” he stated. Elrond gave the barest jerk of a nod.

“I would ask Kíli but…” He trailed off and Thorin knew what he meant. Kíli was in no state to even think about the burial itself, let alone have to consider the politics of the Woodland King’s only son and heir being laid to rest away from his people. But Kíli had as good as wedded Legolas (Thorin knew for a fact that Kíli had only been waiting for Thorin’s own marriage). He rather thought that Legolas would have wanted to be lain in the mountain where Kíli would once join him but he didn’t know if that was his own bias talking.

“Allow me to think about it,” Thorin said quietly. “I’m as little fit to make a decision now as Kíli is.”

“I can only give you until my elves return,” Elrond warned.

“I will have a decision by then,” Thorin promised. “But not now. Please don’t ask me.”

In silence, Elrond turned to resume their walk but they wandered not back to the valley but deeper into the forest. Thorin eyed him curiously, wondering what still needed to be discussed, what was so private that they had to travel still further away from Rivendell.

They came to a small bridge over a little river, from which Thorin could see a couple of the elegant buildings through a break in the trees. He turned his attention from Rivendell only to realize with a jolt that they were no longer alone. He took one quick glance at the shaggy-haired, brooding man and knew immediately that he was looking at one of the rangers of the north, if not one of the Dúnedain.

“This is Strider,” Elrond said. There was a slight pause before he said the name, almost as though he were unused to it. Thorin didn’t comment on the lie though. Far be it from him to judge anyone for the use- or disuse- of their name. “He brought news to us this morning from the north.”

Thorin turned a wary eye on the ranger, still worried about the secrecy. “Greetings, King Thorin,” Strider said. Despite his rough and homespun clothes, the stiff, formal words fell easily from his lips, leaving Thorin curious as to his upbringing. “I’ve heard much about you. I became friends with your nephew when he traveled north.”

Thorin frowned. “He made no mention of you.” There was a soft exhalation from Lord Elrond.

Strider only looked amused. “I asked him not to. I value my privacy. Anonymity provides opportunities I couldn’t get with infamy.” Thorin merely shrugged. He wouldn’t know; his name had been known wherever he’d gone. “I was sorry to hear about Legolas,” Strider said softly. “He was a dear friend as well.”

The pang that hit him was stronger than Thorin had been expecting. He blinked away tears, a trifle frustrated at their frequent appearance. “You brought news?” he asked.

“Lord Elrond told me you were intercepted by a party of some-hundred orcs. He believed they were hunting you.”

The odd phrase caught Thorin’s attention. He asked, “Believed?”

Strider nodded. “The rangers were tracking them as well. The orcs hailed from Gundabad. King Thorin, what do you know of Kíli’s time in the wilds?”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “Very little,” he admitted. “Kíli hasn’t much wanted to speak of it. We thought it was because he was wrapped up in his elf.”

Strider didn’t look surprised, instead appearing more like he had expected this answer. “Six months after Kíli joined us, we realized that orc forces were amassing at Gundabad once again. We were concerned. The last time such a thing happened was under the orders of the Necromancer fifteen years ago. Kíli proposed a number of raids to draw out the orcs, personally leading many of them. We were able to greatly reduce their numbers but they came to know that a dwarf was leading the raids. He didn’t want to lead them back to Erebor so he began going by a different name. We hoped it would be enough and it seemed to work for enough time that Kíli could return to the Lonely Mountain. When we first heard of the orcs hunting you, we sent word to Lord Elrond so he could give you aid only to discover they weren’t hunting you at all, King Thorin. They were hunting Kíli.”

A chill shivered down his spine at Strider’s final words. For a moment, he marveled at his nephew’s stupidity, that he would return to Erebor with such a threat behind him. But Kíli had been younger and in love and, for all his recklessness, he wasn’t truly stupid. He must have believed himself to be safe enough to return, must have thought that he’d hidden his tracks well enough.

“Why do you tell me this? I can’t tell Kíli any of it,” he said gruffly, a terrifying realization creeping over him. “His heart is broken enough. I won’t shatter it by telling him it’s his fault Legolas is dead.”

“No,” Strider agreed. “I’m telling you this to warn you. The rangers believe that the Gundabad orcs are only after Kíli but they know he came from Erebor. You’re not in the mountain, Your Majesty, your longest absence in fifteen years. There is no better time to besiege the Lonely Mountain and the orcs know it.”

Thorin stared at him in horror. “I have to go back,” he muttered, beginning to turn.

“No,” Elrond said sharply, brows furrowing together. “You are injured, weary, heartsick. You’re in no state to be trying to return east.

Thorin was affronted. “Not a dwarf here would remain, not while Erebor is in danger, and I will do no less.” He began to mutter to himself, drawing together plans for the journey back east.

Strider said gently, “Erebor is in no danger.”

Ceasing his mumblings, Thorin said dangerously, “Was it not you who told me of the possibilities of an army of orcs marching on Erebor?”

“You thought I would bring you this news alone?” Strider asked. “Even now, Gandalf is riding for the Iron Hills to ask Dain Ironfoot’s assistance and Thranduil is bringing his own army of elves to Dale. You are not alone, Thorin Oakenshield. Your alliances are strong. Erebor is protected.”

“My people deserve better than protection!” Thorin roared, losing his temper. “They deserve their king!”

Strider took a step back. Thorin had to wonder what he had said that was so profound to the ranger to put that remorseful look on his face. But Elrond said quietly, “Do they not also deserve a stable reign?”

Thorin whipped his head around so quickly he cricked it but he ignored the painful twinge as Elrond continued, “I know why you have traveled so far west. Your decision to leave the reclamation of Moria for a safer time was a wise one but it didn’t sit well with your people. Balin told us you sought to marry to regain their favor, an advisor of your sister’s. Yet you travel west, to the Shire I think. You’re an honorable man, King Thorin, a good man. You wouldn’t come here if you were still betrothed. You’re out of options. Marriage for the good of your people but the Shire is your last hope.

“You cannot return east, not alone. Your mountain is well defended. I myself will ride to the aid of Erebor. We can hold it until you’ve finished in the Shire.”

Thorin was silent, taking in all that Lord Elrond had said. It tore at him to abandon Erebor during her time of need but the elf was right. He wasn’t going to the Shire merely for himself. He remembered what he had once told Balin when all of this began, that he didn’t want to drag Bilbo into the political intrigue that had plagued his rule since he’d taken the throne. But now he was doing just that, only now he had the hope that his marriage would bring the stability he had wanted so desperately for his people.

“And what would you have me do if I return from the Shire to find that the mountain has not been attacked?” he asked, curious now to see what Elrond would say.

It was Strider who answered him. “March on Gundabad. Long has it been a sacred place to your people, desecrated by the orcs who live there. Reclaim the ancient homeland of the dwarves. Make it a kingdom once more,” he urged.

Thorin turned thoughtful. “You are no mere ranger, are you?” he asked though he thought he already knew the answer.

Strider ducked his head. “You’re perceptive,” he answered. Thorin noted that it wasn’t really a response to his question and wasn’t that an answer in itself?

“I was not named king merely because I am the next of Durin’s line,” he allowed. “What is your interest in Gundabad? I doubt it’s out of courtesy to the dwarves.”

Now it was Elrond who said, “Gundabad was emptied when Azog attacked the Lonely Mountain. The orcs were slaughtered. There is no reason they should have returned so fast. An age ago, Sauron built his armies at Gundabad and fifteen years ago, he tried to do the same as the Necromancer. Gandalf is worried; the Ring of Power is missing. He believes it to be with a creature that has long hidden itself in the Misty Mountains, a creature that was reported attacking a village on the East Road two weeks ago. If the Ring is on the move, if the enemy is also moving, then we must stop him where we can. His eye is fixed on Gundabad so ours must be also.”

“What of the Ring?” Thorin asked.

Elrond and Strider exchanged significant looks with each other. “The Ring cannot be allowed to return to its master,” Elrond said. “If this creature has it, then he must be stopped.”

“I will not be traveling east to the Lonely Mountain,” Strider said. “I travel west to hunt the creature.”

“And does this creature have a name?” Thorin queried, thinking to warn any dwarves traveling on the East Road of the possible danger.

“Yes,” Elrond said. “One that Gandalf thought you would recognize- Gollum.”

Thorin stilled. Yes, he did know that name though Bilbo had been strangely reluctant to discuss it. There had been talk of a game of riddles, a description of a gaping mouth with sharp teeth, and a very soft, “I pitied him.” But he knew enough to know that he never wanted to meet the strange being.

“I wish you good hunting,” he told Strider sincerely. From Bilbo’s descriptions, he doubted that Gollum would be easy to hunt.

“I’ll remain here a few more days,” Strider said. “See if there’s any more I can learn from you.”

“I don’t know what more I can give you that Gandalf hasn’t already,” Thorin said honestly. “But I’ll do what I can.”

Strider nodded shortly and then slipped away into the shadows of the trees. Thorin watched him go. When he turned back, Elrond was studying him carefully. Thorin wondered what he was thinking. The last time Elrond had studied him in this way, he had declared him unfit to retake the Lonely Mountain and likely to fall prey to dragon sickness.

“I misjudged you,” Elrond said finally. “Once, I told you that it was unwise to attempt to reclaim the kingdom of Erebor. I doubted the strength of your line. I was wrong to do so; you have done well by your people.”

“No,” Thorin said, shaking his head. “You were right. I was snared by the dragon.”

Though Elrond would never do something so common, Thorin got the sense that he was mentally shrugging. “Perhaps you were not so resilient in the face of your illness but you were able to recover. There are few who can claim recovery from gold sickness. To go on then to lead one of the great kingdoms of Middle Earth, to gain your people’s trust the way you have, to become a beloved king…” He tilted his head. “It is not an informidable feat.”

Thorin wanted to argue, wanted to say that it was a feat any king would undertake, wanted to remind the elf of the near-devastation he had caused, equal to that Smaug had brought. But he was not so ungracious. He merely gave him his thanks.

They continued on their way, speaking now of lighter topics. Both wished to avoid further discussion of their mutual tragedy. Elrond wished to know how Erebor had fared these past fifteen years. He admitted that Balin had been somewhat reluctant to discuss the happenings of the mountain with an outsider. Thorin was pleased at this further demonstration of his advisor’s loyalty, unnecessary as it was. He spoke at length of the Lonely Mountain, the journey back to Rivendell passing faster than the journey away.

Lord Elrond led him to an unused room and took his leave, Thorin thanking him for his time. Once he was alone, Thorin collapsed against the door. He hadn’t had the time to grieve over the past few days but now it washed over him, threatening to drown him in its presence.

He knew that Kíli was devastated by Legolas’ loss and he would admit that he would miss the elf but Dwalin had been his closest friend. Dwalin had sat with him through the long nights when he wasn’t sure how he would find food for his people. Dwalin had fought with him against Smaug. Dwalin had comforted him after Bilbo had left. Dwalin had been his protector these many years, his staunchest ally and even his voice of reason when he’d needed it.

Now Dwalin was gone.

He screamed his anguish, his anger. It wasn’t fair that Dwalin had been taken from him, that his life had been cut short so cruelly. It wasn’t fair that, once more, he had been left to flounder. Hadn’t he done his penance? Hadn’t he lost enough? Hadn’t he paid for his mistakes over and over and over again?

And then there was Balin to consider. Oh Mahal, someone had to let Balin know. It wasn’t right. This was supposed to have been a happy trip, a triumphant return with Bilbo at his side. Instead, there would be silence and mourning.

He swallowed back the tears that were threatening to spill, knowing that if he let himself cry, he would never stop. There was a letter to be written and plans to be made. He could grieve (would it never end?) once he had returned home.

Thorin met the next morning with Strider and Elrond, this time within Rivendell proper, to discuss the hunt for Gollum and the plans for the defense of Erebor. However, they were joined also by Fíli, whom Thorin had taken into his confidence the night before. Fíli, as Thorin’s heir, deserved to know the events transpiring at Gundabad. He had been as horrified as Thorin was to hear of the orcs marching on the Lonely Mountain though he also understood the importance of continuing on to the Shire. He had been rather more upset to hear that it was Kíli’s fault the orcs had been hunting them, inadvertently leading to Legolas and Dwalin’s fall. He agreed fervently that it wasn’t something they could ever tell Kíli.

As always, his nephew’s advice was invaluable. He could see weaknesses that the others missed and, being rather younger than Thorin, was capable of remembering more about Gollum than the king had.

They passed several days in this fashion, meeting in the morning and working late into the night. Erebor’s defense came together before their eyes and Strider was certain that he had significantly narrowed down the places Gollum might be hiding. On the fifth day, Strider made a point that Thorin had been avoiding thinking of.

“I don’t think it would be good for Kíli to return to the Shire with you,” he said. “He’s lost his own love. The joyous reunion of two once parted may be too much.”

“What would I do instead?” Thorin asked, secretly agreeing with the man. “I cannot send him back to Erebor. He’s looked forward to seeing Bilbo as much as any of us. He cannot stay here, delaying his inevitable grief by mere weeks.”

“I ride west in a few days. Let him come with me,” Strider offered. “He can live with us once more until he is ready to return to Erebor.”

Thorin personally doubted that he would ever see Kíli again if he rode with the rangers once more. Kíli loved too much, too fast. He would not soon want to see the home he had once shared with Legolas.

But he said none of this, choosing instead to say, “I cannot make this decision for him. You may ask him of his wishes.”

The clear ringing of an elven horn sounded through the valley before the discussion could continue. Elrond sighed heavily, the years weighing heavily on him. “My people have returned,” he said, looking sideways at the dwarves beside him. “What is your decision, King Thorin?”

He could feel Fíli’s questioning gaze upon him but he couldn’t meet his nephew’s eyes as he said, “Let Legolas go home to his people. I will not begrudge Thranduil the burial of his heir but let him know of this request- that when Kíli passes, he be laid beside him.”

“Uncle-” Fíli started to protest but another set of notes trilled through the air, cutting him off.

Strider frowned. “That is no mourning call,” he said.

“So what is it?” Fíli asked, hope beginning to seep into his voice.

“Healers,” Elrond answered for him. “They call for healers.”

Nearly as one, the group turned and hurried towards the valley entrance, arriving on the steps of the scene just as Elrond’s healers did. For a moment, Thorin regretted the lack of banisters in Rivendell, as it would have been wonderful to grip one. Then Fíli’s hand stole up to grasp at his shoulder. He clutched it back, smiling broadly as Dwalin was loaded onto a carrier.

Dwalin’s left shoulder was bloody, a wreck of what it had once been, and there was a deep gash running along his cheek. At a glance, Thorin guessed that it would scar. But Dwalin was grinning madly and waving his good hand at them.

“Didn’t think ya could get rid of me this easily, did ya?” he roared. Thorin’s smile grew wider. “’Sides, he’s the one that held me up!” Dwalin continued and he jerked a thumb behind him.

Thorin looked past the carrier to see Legolas- leaning on a branch to aid his limp but alive. The elf was watching closely as the healers bore Dwalin away and Thorin wondered at how they had bonded while they’d been lost in the mountains. It was only once Dwalin was out of sight that he hobbled to Thorin.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a small bow, little more than a nod when he wobbled trying to bend further. “Lord Elrond.” He didn’t seem to notice Strider at all. Perhaps because Strider had stepped back into the shadows as much as he could, a fact that Thorin found odd but he chose not to cast judgment.

Whatever the reason, Thorin didn’t trouble himself with it any longer. Dwalin and Legolas were both alive and that was cause for celebration. “I know someone who’d like to see you,” he commented.

A soft smile, tinged with worry, appeared on Legolas’ face. “Kíli?” he asked. Fíli took his arm, leading him away.

Thorin watched them go and then told Lord Elrond, “Thank you for your offer but I don’t think Legolas will be going anywhere.”


	20. The East Road

Thorin stopped by Kíli’s room the next morning, intending to share with him all that he had learned over the last few days. The hour was drawing near noon and Thorin expected to find both Kíli and Legolas awake even if they weren’t ready to leave the room yet. To his surprise though, when he knocked and Kíli lowly called, “Just a moment,” he didn’t sound particularly alert as if Thorin had indeed woken him from sleep.

Kíli opened the door shirtless. Thorin took a moment to be grateful that he was at least wearing pants. There had once been a time when Kíli would have thought nothing of answering a knock in the nude.

“Uncle!” Kíli said sounding surprised.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Thorin asked.

“Shh,” Kíli admonished, lowering his voice. “Legolas is asleep again.”

“Again?” Thorin said teasingly. He suspected he knew why Legolas had woken up in the first place. Kíli blushed, not refuting the unspoken challenge. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Thorin caught the briefest glance of Legolas stretched out across the bed, as nude as Thorin had suspected him to be. He looked back at Kíli, raising an eyebrow. Kíli’s blush deepened.

“I didn’t say why he was asleep,” he muttered.

Thorin chuckled. “And I didn’t ask.”

Kíli glanced away, smiling slightly. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief. He’d missed Kíli’s smile. That boy deserved to be smiling all the time, deserved to be surrounded by the happiness he was so often deprived of. Thorin remembered how that smile had slowly disappeared during the quest for Erebor. When he’d taken the throne, he had promised himself that his nephews would never again have cause for sadness. Now, on another quest for Thorin’s personal happiness, Kíli had nearly lost the happiness he’d gained.

Seeming to sense where Thorin’s thoughts had gone, Kíli said quietly, “It wasn’t your fault. Legolas told me what happened. It would have happened to anyone left behind.”

Thorin was reminded of why he’d originally come to Kíli’s door. He sighed heavily. “Kíli, we have to talk about the attack. There are things you should know.”

Kíli’s expression fell. He leaned back against the door. “They were from Gundabad, weren’t they?” Thorin’s shock at Kíli’s insight must have shown on his face because he laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve been thinking about it all week. Legolas said they were hunting us. I thought he meant you but that didn’t make sense. Azog is gone, Bolg as well. There’s no bounty on your head, no reason they would chase you. So why would a group of orcs be hunting you? But me…”

He gulped and then continued, “Uncle, you have to understand. I thought it was safe. I wouldn’t have returned to Erebor if I thought it wasn’t.”

Thorin held up a placating hand. “I know,” he reassured him. Kíli was reckless with himself but he had grown up since first embarking on the journey to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. He wouldn’t have put his people in danger like that. “Your friend, Strider, told me a little.”

“Strider?” Kíli asked, brow furrowing. “Strider is here in Rivendell?”

Nodding, Thorin said, “You do know him then?”

“Of course. He’s a friend,” Kíli replied, waving a distracted hand. He cast a sharp look at Thorin. “What did he tell you of Gundabad?”

“Only that you led the raids against the orcs.” Thorin hesitated. “Kíli, I do have to ask. What happened while you were in the north?”

Kíli looked torn and he bowed his head. “I can’t tell you more than what you’ve been given. These aren’t just my secrets alone, Uncle.”

“What if I ask you as your king?”

An anguished look crossed his nephew’s face as he said, “Please don’t. I can’t tell you. You must believe me.”

Thorin was silent for a long moment as he studied Kíli’s expression. He didn’t know what was holding him back from sharing everything but Kíli wasn’t the kind to needlessly hold secrets. If he said that he couldn’t tell him, then it was indeed quite serious.

“I do,” he said finally. Kíli’s relieved look spoke volumes. Then Thorin continued, “But I must ask you to seriously consider if these secrets are endangering our people.” Kíli opened his mouth but Thorin stopped him with a hand. “The news of the Gundabad orcs is not the only news Strider brought.” He went on to tell Kíli of the possible march on Erebor and of Strider’s advice to strike first at Gundabad, of the assistance that Lord Elrond, Strider, and even Thranduil had promised him. He could see the dawning realization on Kíli’s face of what his actions had brought.

“Do you see now why I ask you what happened while you were in the north?” he asked when he was finished. “I understand that there are things you can’t tell me but if there’s anything you can, it would be most welcome.”

Kíli bit his lip as he considered everything he had said. Thorin could tell that he was just as horrified by the thought of the Gundabad orcs laying siege to the Lonely Mountain as he and Fíli had been.

“I assume Strider’s only given you tactical information or you wouldn’t be asking,” Kíli said with a resigned sigh. He didn’t wait for Thorin to say anything before continuing, “They didn’t start out as raids. I’d been there two years at that point. We had sent out a hunting party. They were attacked by orcs. Three were killed, six captured including Tauriel, and only one made it back to tell us what happened. We searched for them for months but we didn’t think to look toward Gundabad. We thought it was still empty. When we finally discovered where they were being held, it had been nearly six months so we threw together this rescue plan to get them out. But we didn’t consider how fortified Gundabad was. The plan fell to pieces as soon as we entered. We were able to get to Tauriel and the others but they were badly hurt and we were cornered in one of the storerooms. Legolas made an escape for us but he stayed behind to give us time. I couldn’t leave him there. He was my friend and he was the prince of the Woodland Realms and he- I-”

“And you loved him,” Thorin finished gently.

Kíli nodded. “And I loved him. I didn’t want to admit it then but I knew there was something. I didn’t even know if he was alive in there but I had to try. We knew that the same plan wouldn’t work so we thought it out to have me lead a force against one of the supply caravans while Strider snuck in to rescue him. It worked. I was able to draw out enough of Gundabad’s forces for Strider to get him out. We thought then about continuing the raids, knowing that the orcs couldn’t be allowed to stay there, only to realize that I had the most experience in combat, true combat, than any of the rangers. It fell to me to plan and lead the attacks. I knew that I couldn’t go by my name so I began going by another.”

Thorin watched him sadly as he talked, seeing now how Kíli had been forced to grow up during the years he’d been gone. It must have terrified him to have such responsibility thrust upon him and to know that one misstep would lead the orcs to Erebor’s doorstep.

“What name?” he asked when Kíli fell silent.

Kíli smiled ruefully. “Bilbo. It seemed fitting and I thought that he was enough of a hero to the dwarves that it wouldn’t seem suspicious.” He paused before continuing, “I can give Lord Elrond as much information as I can and Legolas knows more about the inside of Gundabad than anyone else. We can help plan the attack.”

Thorin nodded. “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow morning then,” he said.

“Uncle,” Kíli said hesitantly as Thorin turned to go. “Will we be going back to Erebor?”

“No. We’ll continue on to the Shire as planned. I promised the dwarves of Erebor a stable reign. The least I can do is try to ensure that happens.”

They remained in Rivendell another nine days. Legolas was up and walking around by the third day, astounding (and somewhat irritating) the dwarves with the swift healing of the elves. He joined Kíli at the war councils to offer his assistance where he could and to remain in eyesight of Kíli who seemed reluctant to let him out of view. Dwalin, on the other hand, remained bedridden at the behest of the elves and of Ori who he had grown remarkably close to, to the dismay of Dori and the surprise of no one. However, he insisted on being allowed to leave his bed at the end of the week and declared himself fit for travel a day later.

Thorin, eager to get to the Shire, agreed to let Dwalin leave even though the healers weren’t ready for him to go. Elrond, who seemed to put great stock in the healing powers of rest, was prepared to demand that they stayed in the Hidden Valley until Dwalin was fully healed, not least because he thought it not right to send the dwarven king into the wild without a bodyguard. Personally, Thorin thought that he’d be more than fine with the eleven other dwarves at his disposal but he negotiated a deal for Elrond’s two sons to join them on their journey in exchange for their departure. Since Strider and Legolas were already planning to travel some ways with the dwarves, at least until Gollum’s path diverged from the East Road, Elrond deemed it a fair trade and allowed the Company to depart from Rivendell.

It was a cheery, lighthearted group that left the Hidden Valley. By mutual agreement, Thorin and his fellow conspirators had decided not to tell any of the Company about the happenings with the Gundabad orcs. The decision had already been made to return to the Shire and he didn’t want any of his companions to feel torn between their loyalty to Erebor and their loyalty to their old friend.

As such, the conspirators put on their happiest faces and kept any worries private. It wasn’t hard to pretend like their hearts were light. Elladan and Elrohir were cheery in a way few elves were and they formed a formidable bond with Kíli and Fíli, having already known Legolas from their childhood. Thorin had thought his nephews were bad enough with their troublemaking ways and Legolas was always willing to be an active participant in their schemes. But Elrond’s twin sons brought their mischief to as yet unreached heights.

Bombur found his sugar and salt switched, making for a highly interesting dinner one night. Thorin woke up to find an irate squirrel in his bedroll a few mornings later and Dori was plagued by lizards and frogs in his packs at every possible moment. But the tricks were harmless and so Thorin did nothing to stop them at their games.

Strider, on the other hand, was far calmer than any of the three elves. He joined in none of the tricks the others played on the Company. Instead, he entertained himself by asking Thorin questions about his rule. Thorin thought the questions were a little odd, as they dwelled less on the heroic side of his reign and more on the bureaucracy, but he didn’t question it.

They reached the Trollshaws with no trouble at all. Glóin insisted on stopping to see if there was still any treasure left in the trolls’ hoard. Upon seeing that there was still plenty, he insisted on stopping longer to bury another chest of gold.

“Bilbo cheated us out of the last lot,” he huffed as he piled dirt on top of the chest. “I’m just replenishing the store.”

“Isn’t there enough gold in Erebor already?” Elladan asked, highly amused by the proceedings. Silence fell over the group as they all turned as one to stare open-mouthed at Elladan. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Enough. Gold. In. Erebor,” Glóin stated slowly. Then he began to laugh uproariously at the very concept, the rest of the Company joining in. “You elves! That’s the best joke I’ve heard in years, laddie!”

Elladan cast a confused glance at his brother and then leaned over to Thorin who had not joined in the mirth. “I don’t understand,” he admitted quietly.

“There are very few dwarves who would ever believe in such a thing as enough gold,” Thorin replied just as quietly.

“What of you, King Thorin?” Elrohir asked.

Thorin jumped slightly. He hadn’t realized that Elrohir was listening in. He met the elf’s slightly knowing gaze and shuddered inwardly. It was often easy to forget that the two were thousands of years old. But then there were moments like this and he was forcibly reminded that they had been alive long before he’d been born and they’d be alive long after he was dead.

He shuddered again. The longer he remained silent, the more the gold of the troll’s hoard called to him. He wondered if it was like dragon gold, if a curse had been laid upon these treasures from the evil that had dwelled upon them.

“I have become one of those dwarves,” he said shortly and exited the cave.

Rarely did he understand what drew Bilbo to the grass and earth but it was moments like this where he understood it perfectly. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was the master of the dragon sickness. It was not the master of him. Nearby, his nephews and Legolas were studying something on the ground though Fíli had quickly averted his eyes from studying Thorin when he glanced over. Thorin joined them but he’d never been much of a tracker and all he could see was a patch of dirt, perhaps a few bent blades of grass.

“Are you okay?” Fíli murmured.

Thorin nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Little overwhelming?”

He nodded again and then raised his voice. “What is it you think you’ve found?”

Legolas glanced up at him, not surprised in the least to see him there. “I think it’s our quarry,” he answered. He motioned for Strider to join them. Thorin jumped again, unaware that Strider had snuck up behind him. That boy was as sneaky as one of the elves. He and Legolas held a brief conversation in rapid Sindarin. Thorin narrowed his eyes. He was beginning to have suspicions about Strider’s upbringing and he wasn’t sure he liked the picture it was painting of the ranger.

“This is where we leave you,” Strider said, abruptly switching from Sindarin.

“You think it’s the creature?” Fíli asked.

“We think so, yes. I’ve never seen anything else that moves like this-” Strider said, cutting off strangely. Thorin could fill in the rest of the sentence though. If there was anything else out there that moved in such a strange way, it was unlikely to be a good thing.

Kíli seemed to be stuck on- “You’re leaving?” He looked more than a little lost.

Legolas stared at the small group clustered around them. “Could you give us a moment, please?” he asked softly.

“Of course,” Thorin said promptly, not moving. Neither Fíli nor Strider moved as well.

There was a moment where Legolas tried to decide if they were joking with him or not. Then he added, “Alone?”

There were murmurs of assent and surprise as the three moved back toward the troll hoard. “I thought they just wanted a break in the conversation,” Fíli muttered. Thorin shrugged. He’d known that they wanted to say goodbye but he hadn’t realized they’d meant a private one.

Strider and Fíli both looked away into the cave to give the two a modicum of privacy. Thorin, however, took a little longer to turn, still uncertain of the gold sickness. He caught the moment when Legolas bent down to press his forehead against Kíli’s and whispered, words carrying in the still hollow, “Courage, amrâlimê.” Quickly, he turned his own gaze aside, realizing that the moment was far more private than he’d first thought.

A few minutes later, Kíli joined them by the cave. He clasped Strider’s forearm and said, with a brave grin, “Take care of him.”

Strider said simply, “You have my word.”

Then the two hunters were gone, swifter than fleeting rabbits. Kíli watched them go, staring after them even after they were long out of sight. Thorin pretended he didn’t see the sheen of tears in his eyes though Fíli gently knocked his shoulder.

“He’ll be okay,” he assured him. Kíli didn’t look wholly reassured and Thorin remembered that his nephew had thought he’d lost Legolas at least twice.

“He’ll come back to you,” Thorin said now. “Those elves are tricky to kill. I should know; I’ve been trying to get rid of Thranduil for a hundred years.” Kíli choked out a startled laugh and Fíli flashed a grateful grin at Thorin for the comment.

Elladan and Elrohir both exited the cave. “Are they gone then?” Elrohir asked.

“Who’s gone?” Bofur asked, ducking out behind them.

Thorin was quiet a moment more and then faced them. “Legolas and Strider. They’ve gone to do something for Gandalf,” he said easily, surreptitiously letting the others know that it was all he planned to say on the matter.

The rest of the Company accepted the excuse readily which Thorin was grateful for. Though he’d agreed to do it, he was uncomfortable with the idea of lying to them about the events occurring around them. He wasn’t sure he could continue lying to them if they kept asking questions about the whereabouts of Legolas and Strider.

The remainder of the journey was as uneventful as the first days leaving Rivendell had been. They made excellent time, stopping only to rest at night and eating as they rode. Though they passed quite a few small villages, it wasn’t until they reached Bree that they stayed in an actual inn, the same one Thorin had stopped at when he’d met Gandalf all those years ago.

They pressed on the next morning. Growing in their eagerness to see Bilbo again, they could practically scent the victory in the air. They were going to see their beloved burglar again.

It was another few days before they finally reached the borders of the Shire where Elladan and Elrohir left them to join their father on his trek north to Erebor. The Shire was safer than the rest of the road as they all knew quite well.

As the two elves rode away, Thorin gazed out across the rolling hills and green lushness of the Shire. He might not have known these lands well but he could remember them all too clearly. Awash in memory, he closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of his beloved’s homeland.


	21. Shirelings

The journey through the Shire took another few days. While the Shire was not so big as perhaps one of the countries Gondor or Rohan, it was certainly larger than Erebor. Erebor, in its entirety, could take a full day to travel from one end of the mountain to the other. Just like the Lonely Mountain, it took time to traverse the green countryside of the hobbit homeland. Thorin could recall it taking them a little over four days to reach Bree from Bag End when they’d traveled through the last time. However, back then, they had been laden down with Bilbo who’d never ridden a pony before and kept slowing them down with his demands that they go back for silly things like his handkerchief or a summer coat (as if the quest for Erebor would have taken nearly a year).

This time, they were laden down only by the needs of their ponies. They stopped for rest only at night, eating on horseback. Thorin was certain that it wouldn’t take them as long to reach Bag End, especially with their eagerness spreading to the ponies and spurring them on to faster speeds.

Indeed, it only took them three days to reach Bilbo’s home. Three days of traveling through the winding roads and little green hills of the Shire. Three days of Dwalin leading the way because Thorin was still hopelessly lost even if it was a little easier to find the path in the daylight.

Thorin tried not to mind the travel time though every minute spent on the road was a minute that he wasn’t with Bilbo. He reminded himself that every minute on the road was also another minute closer to Bag End but he was impatient now for the journey to be over. He wasn’t sure how he was going to woo Bilbo away from his hobbit lover but he suspected that a good start would be by simply being in Bag End. He couldn’t win Bilbo back by being on the other side of the Shire.

Worse than the traveling though were the whispers and mutters that followed them through the Shire. Thorin had spent much of his life followed by gossip, though they were often of the mocking kind that reminded him of the loss of Erebor, gossip that called him the king without a kingdom, the king of nobody and nothing, the king in exile. He had become almost proud of that last title, as his people had grown fond of reminding outsiders that their exiled king had brought them home but the whispers had bothered him in the beginning of his nomadic life.

These, however, were not those kinds of whispers. These were whispers of the sort that had often plagued his companions. These were whispers of the pervasiveness of dwarves in these parts, warning neighbors to lock away their valuables because dwarves were greedy, untrustworthy creatures who roamed Middle Earth looking for anything they could steal and hadn’t they had enough of dwarves fifteen years ago? Hadn’t dwarves done enough damage when they’d stolen Bilbo Baggins away and made everyone think he was dead so they could empty Bag End and then Bilbo had returned and demanded his belongings back?

The last set of whispers bothered him more than the rest. The rest he had grown used to but Bilbo had hinted in his letter at the discontent of his return, that not everyone had been pleased to see him returned safely. He had thought that those whispers would have died away but he had to physically stop himself from turning back the first time he heard one of the hobbits say “Mad Baggins.”

During his last foray into the Shire, Thorin had been too consumed with thoughts of his quest to hear the whispers of the hobbits. But he heard them now. Whispers of _vagabond_ and _thief_ and _malcontent_.

He gritted his teeth as they rode through Hobbiton, hearing the mutterings pick up in volume after they passed by. Dwalin made a move as though to turn back to face them. Thorin reached out a hand, stopping them.

“Leave it,” he said quietly.

“They disrespect my king,” Dwalin hissed. “I cannot let this stand.”

Thorin sighed heavily. He didn’t want to let it stand. He wanted to let Dwalin return and correct the halflings. His people had been through too much to be disrespected in this manner. But they were on a quest. They wouldn’t be in the Shire for long and he didn’t want to waste time correcting every slight they received.

Briefly, he wondered why Bilbo had loved this place so much, why he had longed so desperately to return. But he knew that wasn’t fair to Bilbo. Bilbo had been one of them, though uncommonly kind. He would never have faced the sort of vitriolic hate that had been spewed at Thorin even if it seemed that he faced it now. He was struck again by the realization that Bilbo was a singular hobbit. Gandalf had said it often and Thorin had come to know it during their quest but never had it seemed so true to him than it was when the glaring faces of Bilbo’s countrymen surrounded him.

Bilbo had never judged him for being a dwarf- or, if he had, he had kept it to himself. He had only ever judged them once for being homeless and their wandering lifestyle, when they had been in the mountains after Thorin had told him that he had no place with them and told him to go home. It still astounded him that Bilbo had returned to them after escaping the Misty Mountains. Looking at the hobbits around them, he doubted that any of them would have even joined them on their quest, let alone come back after the humiliation Bilbo had faced.

“My king?” Dwalin prompted when Thorin remained silent. “Thorin?”

Thorin took another glance at the hobbits and shook his head. “Leave it,” he said again. These hobbits were not worth their time, not when Bilbo was waiting for him.

Dwalin opened his mouth to argue but Ori placed a calming hand upon his arm. They shared a quick glance and then Dwalin turned his horse around to the front. Thorin nodded gratefully at Ori. He wasn’t entirely certain what had caused Dwalin and Ori to pull their heads out of their asses and admit their attraction to each other but he was thankful for it.

“Come,” he told the others. “We’re close.”

The road between Hobbiton and Bag End had been the worst part of the journey for Thorin fifteen years ago. The roads crossed and doubled back on each other with no warning. He supposed it made sense to the hobbits who lived there but it made absolutely no sense to Thorin. Fifteen years ago, when he’d gotten lost multiple times in the Shire, he’d spent the greatest amount of time lost in between the small town and Bag End. Thrice he had chanced upon Hobbiton again before, finally, a passing gardener had taken pity on him and led him to Bagshot Row.

Now, with so much at stake, he didn’t want to waste any more time trying to find his way. He moved his pony aside and motioned for Fíli and Kíli to take the lead. As he recalled, they had arrived directly after Dwalin and Balin to the gathering at Bag End, before any of the rest of the Company and certainly before Thorin. Balin was not with them this time and Dwalin was still busy casting dark glares at the hobbits in the market so it made sense for his nephews to lead the way now.

The two moved ahead easily, able to find their way with scarcely a glance to the path. They chattered happily about the tricks they had in store for Bilbo, as payback for him leaving without saying goodbye.

“No tricks,” Thorin said from behind them. “I won’t have you ruining my- our- chance to bring him home.”

Kíli turned in the saddle and smiled at him sympathetically. Thorin was reminded again that, although Fíli was his heir, Kíli understood far more of his heart than his eldest nephew could ever hope to. He returned Kíli’s smile. Kíli studied him a moment longer before he turned back to Fíli.

“Think you can find your way from here?” he heard Kíli ask quietly.

Fíli gave his brother an affronted look. “Of course I can.”

“I was just checking,” Kíli said mock-seriously. “I know how you can’t find your way out of a cave.”

Without looking, Fíli reached over and shoved him half out of the saddle as he exclaimed, “That was one time!” Kíli clung on to his pony, laughing hysterically. He clawed his way back astride the pony and dropped back to join Thorin, still chuckling.

“Want to tell me about that?” Thorin asked, certain that there was a story behind Kíli’s comment.

“Nope!” Kíli said cheerfully. “But I did want to tell you something.” Thorin motioned for him to go ahead. Kíli’s expression turned more pensive, his laughter fading away. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for letting me bring Legolas home.”

“It’s not like he’s a pet,” Thorin said. “I didn’t _let_ you do anything.”

“You know what I mean,” Kíli replied, undeterred. “You said we’re here to bring Bilbo home. With Legolas, I would have understood if you had told me I couldn’t bring him back to Erebor, not to our home and not Thranduil’s son. Especially not after I told Tauriel I couldn’t grant her asylum in the mountain.”

Thorin glanced at him sharply. He hadn’t heard anything about Tauriel requesting asylum in the mountain. To the best of his knowledge, she had traveled north to the rangers immediately following the Battle of the Five Armies. He supposed this must have happened during his and Fíli’s recoveries but he was surprised it had never been mentioned before.

But he said none of that, certain that this was not the time to bring it up. Instead he said, “You’re right. I could have denied Legolas entry into the mountain. Thranduil certainly wanted me to. I think he wanted to be tied to me as little as I wanted to be tied to him. But I have lost too much to refuse you this happiness. I didn’t know if you would ever return to Erebor if I denied your request and I am selfish. I didn’t think I could bear never seeing my favorite nephew named Kíli again.”

He leaned over and ruffled Kíli’s hair. Kíli groaned good-naturedly and knocked Thorin’s hand away. “I’m your only nephew named Kíli,” he said. “Still, thank you.”

“We’re here,” Fíli called back suddenly.

Thorin looked up. He hadn’t realized it but they had indeed arrived at Bag End while he had been talking with Kíli. Tears filled his eyes as he beheld the bright green door. The color was as bright as ever and he wondered if Bilbo had had it recently painted. The dwarvish rune was no longer upon the door and now he wondered how long it had sat there before Bilbo had removed it. Bag End seemed much the same. The little gate was still sanded to perfection, not a splinter in sight. The mailbox stood proudly though there were no letters inside. There was no smoke rising from the chimney but Thorin wasn’t surprised. There was no need for a fire, as winter had not yet reached the Shire and it was unseasonably warm for autumn.

“Uncle?” Fíli asked.

Thorin nodded to himself. It was finally time. He swung down from his pony, holding up a hand to stop Kíli when he made to follow him. “Wait here,” he said. He made his way up the front steps, stopping only when he had reached the front door. Smiling softly, he thought about how he had finally made it back to Bag End, how he had finally followed what his heart had been pleading with him to do for fifteen years. “I’m here, Bilbo,” he murmured.

He knocked on the door.


End file.
